


Tea with the Devil: Twice-Brewed Leaves

by Hikari_no_Chibi



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: CrankyNerdGirl, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-06
Updated: 2015-05-22
Packaged: 2018-02-03 14:32:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 36,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1748000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hikari_no_Chibi/pseuds/Hikari_no_Chibi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a modern-day business AU, set in NYC.  Mr. Gold is the Beast of Broadway, a ruthless man whose fortune was made by taking advantage of the desperate.  Annabelle French works restoring old books for a prestigious first-edition library, for which Gold is a Trustee.  They come together over tea.</p><p>Tea with the Devil Remix.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Tea with the Devil](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/53771) by Hikari no Chibi. 



> This story is a remix of "Tea wtih the Devil," posted on FFN. TwtD was the first thing I wrote, to ease myself back into fan fiction. It had its moments, but sort of fell apart at the end. This version will be better, with a lot of familiar elements, but a fundamentally different bottom line. I also think the characterization will be more consistent, since we've had more chances to see our ship on screen.
> 
> Out of respect for fans of the original TwtD, I'm not making updates to what I am now referring to as my "draft" over on FFN. Updates for this remix will only be found on AO3 -- at least for now.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

Mr. Gold always knew exactly what he wanted and when; conveying that sense of urgent, eminent dread to his underlings was the real challenge.  Eventually someone would crack the code for pre-cognitive (or really, even semi-cognitive) interns, but - he had to admit - it probably wouldn't be him.  Gold tended to make people more nervous than vigilant, which served him well in negotiations and poorly in almost every other respect.

Despite almost legendary impatience and a temper to rival the ancient Gods, it seemed like half of his life had been spent waiting on something to happen. Waiting was hell for a man of action, but Gold wielded patience like a scalpel.  He waited for deals to close. He waited for rivals to become vulnerable. He waited for the next, desperate seller to approach him. If he occasionally sped his waits along with a deft and undetected hand in the mix, who could blame him?

After a career built on waiting for the precise moment to strike, these were acceptable sacrifices: necessary to bring his business dealings to a fine and elegant point. When it came to waiting on his morning tea, however, he was done playing nice.

The seconds ticked by a little slower every day while he waited for his morning pick-me-up, and the tea itself tended to be stewed or meek. He could, admittedly, be a difficult man to please, but was it really so damned difficult to put a kettle on?

A man of his considerable station should not be forced to merely settle for  _wet leaves_.

He could wander to the nearest kitchenette and start the kettle himself, of course, but it typically took less than a minute for the underlings to scurry toward him and start asking for his advice on things.  Compared against the 3 minutes it took for his water to boil... well, some prices were too high, even for the man who had everything.  Putting in face-time, they called it.  Leaning in.  As though he wanted to make small talk with them.  The fresh hell of Greene and her little yes-man Walsh, always ready to pounce the moment he looked up from his work, had rendered the public areas on his floor near useless. Dove, ever the pragmatist, suggested that he simply plug an electric kettle into his Prohibition-era, vintage wet bar.  Gold was tasteful enough to know that it would ruin the aesthetic, and vain enough not to let it. 

No. Making tea was an incidental. It ought to be intern work, but they were bloody terrible at it. Aside from the American tendency to brew tea using a bag, the younger generation seemed to rely almost exclusively on Starbucks and similarly over-priced franchises, with terribly long lines.  Maybe he should just hire a personal barrista?  But that would be a whole other debacle, and not one he cared to see in the gossip rag, passing for a Life & Style piece.

Of course, there was a difference between knowing something and having it proven in front of his very eyes: this morning, one of the little tarts from admin that Greene brought in presented him with a ceramic mug containing tea made from a small K-cup of concentrated  _powder mix_.

A sip of the vile shite left him sputtering.

"Dove, send up a tea service," he said to his enormous assistant, via the office intercom. Rum tended not to waste Dove's myriad talents on humble fetch-work, but he couldn't be arsed to care today. Not this early, with no readily available source of caffeine.

Dove did not reply.

"Dammit dearie, I haven't got all day. Dove? Ian!"

Still nothing.

Double-damn. Despite being large and loyal enough to double as Gold's personal secretary and security, Ian Dove had a genteel reserve that Gold begrudgingly respected. He would be too difficult to replace, at any rate, because his careful juggling of Gold's relentless schedule and social commitments (especially the women) required a degree of tact not common among muscular, fearsome-looking human beings.

If Dove wasn't at his desk, it meant one of a half-dozen wild fires left burning from the night before had called him away. Allowing Dove the freedom to decide which emergencies required his personal attention had served Gold well so far, and he'd much rather get his own tea this once than deal with a  _people problem_ , as Ian called them.

A compromise, then: he'd find the nearest intern and harangue it into fetching a cuppa for him. Finding ways to motivate useless people was a particular specialty of Rumford Gold.

Stalking slowly, cane in hand, through his personal waiting room and out to the executive lobby reminded him why this morning had been such a mess. Twenty-somethings in bargain rack pantsuits lugged boxes in and out of the surrounding offices, with members of facilities standing by to deal with any wiring and access problems. It looked like a bloody zoo.

Zelena Greene and her partner, Ozzy Walsh, looked out at him from behind the glass wall of their new waiting room, opposite his own. As though they were bleeding equals. Well, their tight quarters would put an end to that illusion soon enough.

Forcing Zelena and Oz to share office space had been his own special touch on the merger contract. They were glaring at him through their plate-glass window, and Gold stood up a little straighter. He didn't dare lean too heavily on his cane as he adopted the self-assured saunter of a man with absolutely nothing to fear. Let them stew on that.

Greene, especially, didn't need to know how thoroughly they'd raked him over the coals in the acquisition process. Frankly, he needed them, and that in itself was troubling. He wanted to expand into the Asian market, but the Greene & Walsh legacy had already cornered China, South Korea, and a few of the bigger firms in Tokyo; a lesser man might have worked with them, and a solid businessman would have competed against them with a reasonable chance at equanimity, but the Beast of Broadway (as they'd taken to calling him ever since he acquired his current office building) did not entertain competitors lightly.

Nothing would do for Gold but to devour the rival company entirely.

He'd take great pleasure in dismantling Green & Walsh into a thousand different pieces one day, after his own people made their positions, contacts, and contracts redundant. Usually when he cannibalized another company, the other entity dissolved peacefully, but Zelena Greene surprised him with her fight. He'd under-estimated her (accepting that front-man Walsh was the brains behind their operation) and here they were: a subsidiary. Not an acquisition, not a piece of property, a bleeding  _subsidiary_ with its own stationery and everything.

Gold's head throbbed in time with his bad leg. He needed his tea.

Seeing a red-headed paralegal drop her bundle of papers squarely into the decorative fountain at the center of the private lobby sealed the deal. He was in no mood to tolerate gawking, nervous neophytes in the executive dining rooms – not if his underlings were going to tremble and quake. Fortunately, Gold knew of a place a few stories down where a quiet cuppa might be obtained.

He made for the lift, glaring at anyone who looked like they might entertain notions of riding down with him. What he did with his collection was his business, and his alone; he didn't need the peons getting ideas about what their formidable boss could possibly need all the way down on floor 53.

Truth be told, the collection housed on floors 53-57 was one of the few foibles that he allowed to infringe on his work day. He liked acquiring things: antiquities, artifacts, oddities, favors, money, properties, businesses, influence… These hobbies coalesced quite nicely inside his museum.

As the sole owner of a 70 story high-rise on prime Manhattan real estate, he could afford to convert four whole floors to displaying and storing his trophies. He even opened up some of the galleries to the public and the children of the office daycare facilities. But what he liked – what he really liked – was having a place that could rival the Temple of Dendur for grandiose entertaining.

Nothing screamed  _status_  louder than a genuine Great Hall, with masonry imported from a Scottish castle and recreated in a midtown high-rise. When rivals, clients, and investors walked into the beautiful space, resplendent with tapestries, a long oak table, a massive hearth, and a collection of polished armor and weapons, they tended to think twice before lying to his face.

Of course, the whole thing also served as a massive tax write-off, and it helped fuel his reputation for philanthropy. You couldn't be absurdly wealthy in today's City without being seen to donate to the proper charities.  It was considered tacky.

To Gold's knowledge, none of his museum staff knew that the collection belonged exclusively to him; most assumed he was simply a pushy member of the Board of Trustees, and that suited him perfectly. Being around people merely wary of him, instead of down-right terrified, gave him an occasional treat.

It also gave him a small, quiet lounge in which he might obtain some caffeine before the inevitable headache of his Seoul phone call, among people whose jobs actually kept them busy.  And he even got to enjoy the exhibits along the way.

They weren't open to the public today – excluding special events and Saturdays, access to the Dark Castle Collection was by invitation only – but he pressed his thumb to the scanner next to the security system, and the doors unlocked to let him in anyway. It was good to be the CEO of a multi-national corporation.

Finally free of prying eyes, secluded behind blast-resistant doors and the very cutting-edge of private security, Gold leaned a little more heavily onto his cane and headed through the beautiful chamber fondly called the Great Hall, toward the subtly placed staff door in the adjacent portrait gallery. He didn't quite make it.

Right in the middle of his rather exquisite collection of Pre-Raphaelites, he spotted the smug form of his medieval military specialist, with his tongue down a dusky brunette's throat.

She had her hands pressed against the canvas of his Rossetti, which now hung lopsided in its frame. He'd taken that painting in exchange for an interest reprieve from the private collection of a now-destitute railway heiress. It was one of his favorite memories, from the good-old-days, and if that hadn't been bad enough, the woman in question was Marian Leoncourt.

She was one of his girls, and Rumford Gold did not consider sharing to be one of his strong suits.

Their not-dating, not-married, not-fucking perks package had clearly specified exclusivity, smiles, and discretion, yet here she was – with another man, in front of him – pressed up against his art.

He saw red.

When Archie Hopper handled the H.R. fall-out later that day, he would hear the scene described as "hellish" and "terrifying." Threatening to skin employees alive would evermore be listed in the section of the employee handbook dedicated to things not to do in the work place.

But in the immediate aftermath, with Rob Loxley and his harlot all but sprinting to get away, Gold didn't care a fig. He fired them both (though H.R. would probably thwart him in this) and stormed away. He needed a drink, and the morning call to South Korea could wait.

Earl Grey and Aberfeldy would not mix well, but Gold wasn't sure it mattered. Didn't he keep the woman in enough gossip columns and gowns to ensure she wouldn't embarrass him? On his own bloody property? In front of his damn employees!?

Rum had a life time of experience with men like Loxley, men who  _stole_  from him, and even if he hadn't seen it with his own eyes, the guilt was writ large across the younger man's face. He'd  _known_. He'd known that she was one of Gold's women, and he'd dipped his pen in the company ink anyway. Just how damn long had this been happening?

The whole point of a kept woman was that it  _kept_  complications like these at bay.

He continued through to the museum lounge, slamming the door so furiously that he startled a woman standing at the kitchenette. She dropped the fine china cup in her hand, and the sound of clattering porcelain pulled Gold out of his own head. He glared daggers at her, the first person unfortunate enough to have crossed his path.

"Oh, I'm so sorry! I heard shouting and thought I better lie low for a while, I wasn't expecting anyone to burst in… Sorry, do you work here? I don't think I've seen you before." The girl was already bent over, cleaning up the mess she'd made. Finally looking up, she showed him a damaged cup.

So she'd heard that. Was she mocking him? Mocking the crippled man who women always abandoned?

"It's chipped. I'm sorry."

"Stop apologizing, it's just a cup," he snapped, taking stock of the girl's petite figure. She wore an unfashionable apron over a rather whimsical yellow dress, teetering atop a pair of heels that added a good four inches to her stature. Without the shoes, she looked as though the top of her curls would barely brush his chin, but the ink smear on her cheek ruined what might have been a pretty face.

And she looked a bit like Millie. The resemblance made him cringe.

Rumford took a breath. Wasn't Hopper always telling him to take a deep breath before firing someone? Not that it had helped Jones at all, but better late than never. He exhaled slowly, then inhaled again. The scent of tea lingered on the air.

"Is that Earl Grey?" he asked, slightly calmer.

"Oh, uh… yes. It is. Would you like some?" she offered, smiling nervously.

"I'd bloody well like the whole pot," he grumbled. But he sat down at the small staff table and waited for her to serve.

Belle wasn't sure what to make of the man. He was older than her, and 31 years old was not an insubstantial age for a single woman in the City, but if she had to guess she'd place him at about 50 – not that she ever saw anyone in a suit that nice under the age of 40. He wore it well, with shoulder-length hair that defied the norm and a well-tailored jacket that set off his lithe form. A  _very_   _well_ -tailored jacket, she noted.

Belle had never seen him before, but the face seemed familiar. Then again, she'd only been working here for two months, relegated mostly to the annex, and in that time she'd barely had time to meet anyone outside the immediate museum circle. The heavy breathing and air of fury Mr. Suit emitted left her reeling, but on a second pass he didn't look threatening. Just quite thirsty.

She fetched the porcelain pot and two fresh cups, leaving the poor, chipped soldier in the sink.

"Do you people always have little tea parties down here when you're supposed to be working?" he quipped while she poured a fragrant brew into the floral-print cups.

Belle laughed.

"No, I'm afraid not. The Energy and Efficiency Committee encouraged us to switch to reusable cups instead of paper last week. I happen to prefer loose leaf to bagged tea, so this seemed..." she trailed off.

"Logical," the nodded, taking a sip. He seemed momentarily taken aback, but he took another, larger gulp, so she supposed he liked it.

"I was going to say elegant," Belle replied, sipping her own cuppa. It needed sweetening.

"Milk or sugar?" she offered, reaching for the fridge.

"Honey and lemon?" he tried. The smirk on his face told her he was playing Devil's advocate, but Belle hadn't the foggiest idea what he meant by it.  He could have his tea however he liked it - that was a small enough courtesy.

She quirked a fine eyebrow at him, a glimmer of a giggle in her eyes, and bent to fetch a lemon slice from her personal stash in the crisper. Plucking the generic plastic honey bear from the cupboard, Belle returned looking like the cat that caught the canary.

She plopped them down unceremoniously in front of him.

"Help yourself." He took an ample spoonful of the honey, and left his lemon slice floating in the cup without squeezing.

Oh yes, Gold decided, savoring the flavor. This would do quite nicely.

"So, are you going to tell me who you are?" she asked. "I've met most of the department heads by now, but I don't think I've seen you before. I don't get to see many new faces back in the annex."

Gold smirked. Millie started out this way, pretending not to know him in a very sloppy, rushed seduction that resulted in him investing an exorbitant amount of money in her upkeep. He knew how to play this game.

"Think of it as a mystery. I'll see you in my office tomorrow morning, with the right answer and a tea service, between 8:15 and 8:30. Do not be late.  Do not skip the odd hazy Monday. Are we clear, Miss...?"

"French," she replied, almost glaring. "Annabelle French. And I'm sure you realize how ridiculous you sounded just now. What if I don't show up? Or can't figure it out? I might not be as clever as you think."

"If you work for me, and I assure you that you do, dearie, then you had better be."

So he was her boss, in some capacity. Or thought he was. Interesting.

"Are you in Acquisitions with Emma and Mr. Madden?" she tried.

Gold's humor turned to resentment.

"Don't play coy with me.  It's not a good color for you. You know very well who I am," he barked.

The genuine confusion in Annabelle's blue eyes calmed him slightly. Still, Mr. Gold was not accustomed to explaining himself, and he stood up on shaky legs to leave. She was a clever girl, she'd figure it out.

"I'll see you tomorrow, bright and early Miss French."

"Just Belle is fine," she replied icily.

Gold smirked. It wasn't often you met an infuriated woman with the wherewithal to remain polite. He liked that.

"And try to see if you can't at least look a bit professional tomorrow, dearie. I don't need a ragamuffin parading in and out of my office for the world to see," he added, thinking again about how much her dark hair and bright eyes resembled Millie's.

She looked suitably offended, but said nothing, and Mr. Gold hobbled away. He'd make it in time for South Korea after all, and then have Dove send the customary break-up package to Marian Leoncourt.


	2. Chapter 2

The first time Mr. Suit insisted on her serving his morning tea, Belle thought he was kidding. She didn't bother looking for him, and as far as she could tell the world did not end. Then she skipped the next day.  Then the third.

Three emails from the personal secretary of Rumford Gold, owner of the building and Chairman of the Dark Castle Board of Trustees, set the record straight. No, he was not joking. Yes, that was the oft-maligned Beast of Broadway – in the flesh. No, tea service was not what they were paying her for, but Dove (just Dove, no Mister) could see to it that a small bonus made its way into her check for the inconvenience. Yes, it was rude of him to call her a ragamuffin.

To Belle, it seemed like a reasonably small burden with no obvious draw-backs (assuming she didn't mind making tea, which she didn't). It was true what they said about women in the work-place needing to lean-in and demand respect, and if she'd felt that his request was in any way discriminatory against her on the basis of age or gender, she would have reported him to Human Resources. But this didn't feel like something sinister.  It just felt like a power-play, and not a very artful one. If anything, he just seemed lonely.

Was it a waste of her education to make tea? Perhaps. Keith definitely thought so, but his opinions tended toward extremes. She didn't feel harassed, despite all evidence that Mr. Gold had intended the contrary, so she decided to acquiesce.

For all of Gold's grumbling, it really seemed like he just wanted a cup of tea in the mornings. Not her companionship, not her phone number, just tea. He could certainly have gone about getting it differently, but whether she liked it or not, his position on the Board (which made him the boss as far as the Curator would say) gave him a certain amount of leeway.

Dove, a perfectly lovely and sensible man, sent down a $300 pre-paid credit card so she could pick up any necessities for the following morning and synced their mobile calendars so Belle wouldn't waste her time on days when Mr. Gold traveled or, if the whim took him, chose to work from home.

All in all, it was do-able and decidedly  _not_  forever.

She liked the private collection very much, but her contract only lasted for 2 years until the largest of her restoration work concluded and the library opened. The job fused her love of art with her love of books, and it put her in a position to network with board members of some of the larger metropolitan museums in the area, which might result in a job offer. If pouring tea for the Beast of Broadway was what it took to make her time here go smoothly, well... she could do worse, even if he did think she was a ragamuffin.

Belle lost herself a little when she entered the small Czech tea shop tucked away in the East Village. The smell of honey and ginger overwhelmed her, and she spent a few moments just soaking it all in while the sound of Gogol Bordello drifted from the back room.

In the end, she bought three stainless steel travel mugs, a few fruity variations on the standard black-leaf blend, and more of the pungent, loose Earl Grey she'd served him at their first meeting. After a quick stop at a neighboring specialty foods store, she added a very large jar of organic honey and lemons to last the week to her stash. The pre-paid card still had quite a bit left on it, so Belle tucked it away with her receipts for later. She assumed the lemons, at least, would need to be regularly refreshed.

Her first few mornings went by quietly and without incident. She wasn't sure what she'd been expecting, but the reality was entirely anti-climactic. Belle made it her priority to deliver Mr. Gold's hot travel mug of tea first-thing, prepared just the way he liked it, before she began the painstaking task of restoring and cataloging the massive first-edition repository.

A few of the older tomes had been copied out by monks, lovingly illuminated, and those were the books she scanned and loaded into the museum's database, where fading ink and mold could not touch them.  Their final resting place would be a humidity and temperature-controlled display case, under special lighting designed to preserve the vibrancy of the ink; it was a shame that nobody was likely to lovingly leaf through them again, but the second piece of her job was the truly fresh take on preservation.

That was easily her favorite task, in the beginning: copying out pages on fresh vellum, in gall ink, so that future visitors could interact with history and experience the most important pages as they were meant to be.

The rest of her work consisted mostly of repairing spines, water damage, and foxing for the first-edition library.  She infinitely preferred the medieval texts.  The ink was pungent, staining everything that came into contact with it, and she loved every drop even though her clothes and person tended to be mussed and smudged about 20 minutes into her work day. Maybe she was sort of a ragamuffin.

But the way she looked in the mornings, before donning her apron and gloves, passed muster in the upper offices. At the bare minimum, Mr. Gold was not displeased, because he never commented on it. She took him for the kind of man who liked to complain.

But, in reality, he never commented on anything. Full-stop. She never saw him face-to-face.

Belle dropped off his morning cuppa with Ian Dove and collected his mug from the previous day (or previous two days, since he forgot one in a meeting room about twice a week). She spoke pleasantly to Ariel Finns (a paralegal in an adjacent office) for a few minutes, made small talk on the elevator to whomever happened to be near, and then retreated back into the annex.

She really did like her job – and felt that what she was doing would further public knowledge as the scans became part of academic databases around the globe – but her secret passion lay in a plain white box, nearly 100 pages long, in a dark corner of her work space. The manuscript was a remnant of an unknown novel, dated to just prior to the French Revolution. Who knew what the author could have become, if not for _Madame Le Guillotine_ and Robespierre?

In any event, there was heavy evidence that this sensationalist, highly erotic, and – to her dismay – intricately illustrated work had been influenced by someone with first-hand knowledge of the French court at Versailles. If she could piece together enough of it to find out who the author was referring to in his allegories, it might have some value for history.

The French Book, as Dr. Anton called it (presumably because Literary Pornography was a genre reserved exclusively for the Marquis de Sade), was referenced in numerous indexes and inventories over the years, all of which described it as a hand-written, illustrated masterpiece by an anonymous member of the French aristocracy. Some indexes listed it twice, with slight discrepancies in the description of the binding, and Belle could almost believe that the author had commissioned additional copies to send out to his friends. It was definitely the sort of book one circulated privately. Perhaps, if they were lucky….

Pages featuring particularly graphic illustrations had been cut away and set into smaller frames, disbursed to private collections in God only knew where; she had to assume that more than a few had been burned for indecency; but a few remained and she'd sent out letters looking for facsimiles or – one could hope – remnants of the engraving plates. Other portions of it showed water rings from an errant glass. Still other pages had clearly been edited for content, and cramped writing dotted more than a few of the margins.

All in all, it was the kind of infinitely frustrating thing most people would simply have tossed into indefinite storage. Some storage-limited, private collector had probably disposed of it.  She'd found it at the bottom of a box containing a few mid-print copies of Dumas, more packing material than anything. So she'd applied to the Curator's Office for permission to look into it, and Dr. Anton had given her the green light. The Trustees apparently found engravings of nymphs and satyrs in full Rococo regalia intensely interesting.

So now Belle's duty was three-fold: to ready the first edition library to open, to illuminate her copies, and to bring tea to Mr. Gold. If she had time for a saucy nymph and a few lines of French translation... well, that was lovely.  In the end, the museum wanted an organized, fully documented collection of rare books and first editions, but they also wanted the man who owned their building to feel a little good will, and Belle could cope with that.

Good-will ambassador sounded so much more palatable than delivery girl. It was no small task (menial, true, but not small), and she knew she could handle it. Besides, she loved her books. And these books, in particular, were worth any number of tea-runs.

So that was life: she made tea and worked at a job she liked. Keith, the weapons expert who gave live demonstrations during tours, sometimes flirted with her (she let him down gently); Dr. Anton, the Curator, checked in periodically; Emma, in Acquisitions, occasionally told her a good horror story about her boss (a reformed addict with a nose for finding things) while they waited for the elevator; Greg Aston, the head of Security (or very near it) asked her out to coffee once; and Mr. Gold liked his tea before his first call (with honey and lemon, naturally).

All in all, it became routine inside a week. It took her entirely by surprise when, one Tuesday afternoon, Mr. Dove sent her an email flagged as urgent.

_He's in a mood, heads are going to roll. Will you please do me a favor and run up something decaffeinated? A whole pot, if you can._

Belle liked Ian, she really did, but this had BAD IDEA written all over it.  No matter how much she wanted to, Belle just couldn't bring herself to refuse. She sighed and typed out a quick reply:

_Be there in about 10 minutes._

Looking down at her ink-smeared apron, wrinkled skirt, and stained fingers, Belle felt like she would be walking naked into a war zone. Maybe Dr. Loxley wouldn't mind if she borrowed a suit of armor for the occasion? The head of their medieval department (which represented a disproportionately large percentage of the collection) was still out on paid holiday, purportedly granted by H.R. to prevent a lawsuit, but she didn't think he'd object. Rob was a brilliant historian, but he'd told her once that anything made to be used, out to be.  They'd hit it off instantly.

Thinking about the scandal it would cause – marching off the elevator in full-plate – brought a smile to Belle's face.

Calmer, she summoned all of her bravery, plopped some honey bush rooibos into a tea strainer, and assembled all of her porcelain soldiers on an improvised tray. (It was supposed to be part of an 1850s silver-smithing display, but closer examination had shown it to be a cunning fake.)

When Belle arrived in the executive lobby, she could hear Mr. Gold shouting inside his office. The exact words coming out were muffled through several layers of glass, accent and concrete. It could almost be pleasant to listen to him speak with that lilting, Scottish brogue, if the man ever said anything nice. Belle took a deep breath and kept moving. At the very least, she knew that herbal tea and old books would be pretty far removed from whatever had riled him up.

"I'm here, Ian."

"Thanks, Belle," the enormous man blushed. The receiver of his phone was cupped tenderly in one hand, dwarfed by his massive palms, and three little red lights flashing for callers on hold. "Mr. Gold, your afternoon tea is here," he yelled at the office door, without bothering to use the intercom.

"If you're offering me pigswill again..."

"It's Belle," he interrupted.

"Who?"

"Miss French. The Earl Grey girl. I asked her to make a special trip."

"Good. Send her in," snapped her boss.

"He's all yours," grinned Dove.

"Lucky me," muttered Belle. She was not looking forward to having a full tea pot hurled at her head this afternoon. She took a deep breath, plastered a smile to her face, and walked through Mr. Gold's office door for the first time.

If not for the furious Scotsman seated at the center of it, Belle could have almost appreciated his taste. He had a delicate glass bar, reminiscent of the 1920s, a dark wood desk, and an area rug with patterns she recognized from her art history texts. Everything spoke of wealth, power, and comfort – an important, if often over-looked, component of an office in which one spent the majority of their time.  Nothing was modern, save the computer and communication equipment atop the desk, and even those - she noted - had been chosen to blend seamlessly into the background.  Mr. Gold, it seemed, was not a modernist.  Or too literal of one.  Her images of Virginia Woolf and T.S. Eliot perfectly fitted the space.

Several museum-quality pieces held places of honor on the shelves, and there was a small sofa set off to one side. Beyond that, she thought she spied an almost-hidden door leading to an  _en suite_  bathroom.

The person Gold was screaming at, a cowering, beet-red man who looked painfully shy, used her entrance to excuse himself and escape. He nearly bowled Belle over as he hurried out the door.

"Ah, Miss French. Is that a nib-pen sticking out of your hair, dearie?"

Belle blushed. It almost definitely _was_  a nib-pen doubling as a hair stick for the half-bun atop her head, and it just figured that she would forget something obvious like that in front of him. Still, she wouldn't be cowed by a tantrum.

"Mr. Gold," she replied, setting down the tray on the side of his desk. "You do realize that it's completely inappropriate for you to comment on my appearance in the work place, right?"

"We in the business of making money have certain standards and expectations," Gold replied, nonplussed. "There are dress codes for a reason, and it's because appearance matters. Money matters. Power matters. Except in fairy tales."

"But they don't pay me to do business negotiations, Mr. Gold."

"Don't they?"

He genuinely seemed not to know what she did, as though being his delivery girl must be the sum of her worldly ambitions and talents. That did irk her, she had to admit.

"No," she told him, "They don't. I work in a museum, around lots of ink and dust.  I'm certain you recall - we met after you staged a rather infamous row in the atrium." And with that chastisement, she began to pour.

"This is not Earl Grey, Miss French."

"No, it isn't. It's an herbal Red, from Africa. Ian thought you might benefit from something decaffeinated."

Gold completely stunned her when he let out a healthy belt of laughter and indicated that she should continue to serve. As Belle handed him the cup, she realized a few seconds too late that it was the chipped one.

"Hoping I'll choke on it, Miss French?" he teased, running his finger over the blemished rim.

"Oh, uh... I'm sorry. I didn't realize. It must be the one I dropped. Mr. Gold, if you don't mind me asking: what were you doing in the museum break-room that morning?"

Gold added a bit of honey to his cup and motioned for Belle to sit. She felt incredibly vulnerable, sitting a little lower than his eye level in her less than glamorous state, but she settled into the chair opposite his anyway. Sometimes bravery is tea for one, she mused to herself.

He looked up from his cup and was pleasantly surprised by the bright color and clarity of Belle's rather fine sapphire blue eyes. "Do I need an excuse to want to look at beautiful things, Miss French?"

"No, of course not," she blushed. "It just seems strange that..."

"If you must know, I was looking for a quiet respite and a spot of caffeine."

In for a penny, in for a pound. "Keith says you only ever come down to meet with Dr. Anton and fire people. He said you tried to get the Board to fire Rob."

"Dr. Loxley is a no-account wastrel," Gold spat. Belle got the impression she might have pushed her luck too far. "Fortunately, our Curator assures us that his value to the institution outweighs any offense he might have given me. Now, Miss French -" He waved his hand dismissively.

"Really, you can call me Belle, Mr. Gold."

"But I shall not," he insisted. "This was lovely. You will repeat the performance at 3 PM each afternoon unless Dove tells you otherwise."

"Mr. Gold, I really don't -"

"Yes, yes. They pay you to dust antiquities, as you say. But the point is that  _I_  pay the people paying you. So next time bring me green tea with ginger and an extra cup for yourself."

"Sir?"

"Was that somehow unclear, dearie?"

Belle shook her head no.

"Good. Then get back to whatever it is they do pay you for, and tell Dove he can stop holding my calls. Good day."


	3. Chapter 3

Gold found that their three o'clock tea came with its own set of growing pains. If, for instance, he made her sit and sip a cuppa in silence while he shuffled through papers and answered emails, she tended to get a bit fidgety. He _hated_ fidgeters. It usually meant someone was lying to him.  It was simpler by far to let her drop off the tray and leave, but he found something unspeakably alluring about the few, quiet moments of companionship her presence afforded him.  If only she could stop that damn fidgeting.

When he said as much, she responded that he had better let her go, then, because "the fidgets" were not beholden to his whims. They'd glared a bit after that, but the little harpy hadn't backed down. The next day, his tea tray included a red pen and small sheaf of paper. He sipped his tea in silence, just to spite her. She, to his chagrin, picked up the pile of photocopies and started writing on the margins.

The next day, he pulled up a ledger before she got a chance to ignore him first. Interspersed by casual chit-chat about the weather and their beverages, it was almost pleasant after that. The fidgets did not factor again.

Zelena commented on his afternoon visitor about 2 months into their new routine. Gold recalled the moment clearly, and almost wished he'd thought to be discrete. There was nothing illicit about his time with Miss French, but Zelena's tongue had a way of turning even the most mundane of conversations oily.

"Finally enjoying a little afternoon delight, Rum?" Her lewd smile had spoke volumes, not that the words needed much in the way of subtext. “She’s not at all the caliber you usually attract, but I suppose even low-hanging fruit has its merits. Has she begged you to take her out like a real person, yet? It’s so cute when they do that.”

He supposed it was unavoidable. Men in his position took young, ambitious women into their offices for _private luncheons_ every day, but it took a true lack of self-preservation for Zelena to say it to his face. For that alone, the cold-hearted bitch found herself near the top on Gold's shit-list. But to imply that he couldn't acquire a society lady? That was simply unacceptable. Miss French was the _help_.

He'd barked out a veiled threat and told Dove to find someone with an impressive pedigree for the Mayor's next fundraiser. Women of fine breeding, with excellent deportment were a dime a dozen in New York, and they all knew his reputation as a generous, unpresumptuous companion. Gold required reliable dates who would display some of his pieces to best advantage. In return, they got a new wardrobe, some sort of high-end trinket (not that anything he gave them held a candle to the heritage pieces in his vault, but they liked to go home with something substantial), and a very nice spot in the society pages.

It was necessary, apparently, for a woman famous for inheriting someone else's money to have her photograph taken wearing multi-million dollar diamonds on occasion.

Prior to Zelena's nasty comment about the French girl, the whole arrangement seemed very hum-drum: he got Dove to obtain his dinner dates, call after his dry-cleaning, and make sure his reservations were set in stone. It was the next logical step that he should extend that arrangement to tea time.  Nobody was ever meant to draw a connection between the two and conclude that Belle French was the best he could do. 

He made a point of obtaining only the _best_ women, who knew what was expected of them, without ever really favoring one.  Like everything else in his life, his so-called _romances_ had been reduced to transactions. Not prostitution – never that; he didn't pay them for sex, merely to appear by his side and demonstrate that he _could_ have them.  Up until Greene's lewd remarks, he'd assumed that Miss French knew to be discrete. 

The entire business of companionship remained elegantly impersonal, until Annabelle French breezed into his office with black-stained fingers, a quiet smile, and a pot of liquid sunshine. If Zelena had gotten the wrong idea, it was likely that the girl intentionally contributed to the fallacy. After all, if she could convince even one of his underlings that she had their boss' ear (and assorted anatomy) all to herself, in a private setting, they'd be fools not to utilize her. A cunning woman would have found a way to make them pay for the privilege. Zelena Greene would have, anyway. So would his ex-wife.

And yet… he'd rather deal with Zelena's pettiness or his ex-wife’s disdain than forgo his afternoon tea. It wasn't as though he had any other candidates in mind, and the thought of hiring a plump, Scottish Nan to cater for him left a foul taste in his mouth.  He'd had his fill of overly-cautious, hen-pecking maternal-figures at a very young age.  But trying to keep Miss French at a distance proved almost impossible – the girl had the self-preservation instincts of a dodo bird, and he saw her every day.   Even his most important business relations were lucky to merit meetings once a week.  Yes, she was due for a very public dressing-down, and he was in just the mood to give it.

It would all have been fine, before he overheard her talking to Dove the next day.

“They’re all jealous, you know,” Dove told her. “That’s why they’re staring. It’s nothing personal, Gold’s just a hard man to read, but he likes you and that’s flummoxing them.”

Gold huffed. He certainly didn’t _like_ the girl.

“Thanks, Ian. I needed that today.” She gestured to her outfit, which was admittedly stylish, but obviously cheap. “After I pay my rent and my student loans, I don’t have much left over for office attire. Besides, it all ends up stained with ink or smelling of solvent by the end of the day anyway. Sometimes I come up here and feel like a bag-lady.”

"I'm sorry you got strong-armed into this, Miss Belle," the enormous man comforted her.

"It's not so bad," his little librarian perked-up. "I don't mind the break from the workshop and it gives me an excuse to duck Keith on his coffee break. Mr. Gold's even pleasant, when he wants to be."

"Does he _ever_ want to be?" Dove asked seriously.

"Oh, perish the thought," giggled Miss French. "But he's really not so bad when he's not calling me frumpy."

Had he said she was frumpy? It seemed unlikely, given her genuinely pretty eyes and small, confident smile. The girl had objectionable connections (if one could feasibly object to something that didn't exist), but there was nothing wrong with her physically. No, she must have heard him wrong. At any rate, he would be careful not to repeat the _faux pas_ again. Certainly, as long as she was punctual, polite, and gave no outward appearance of subterfuge, he could endeavor to do the same. Zelena was just making him paranoid.

If Greene was playing a game, she was bloody brilliant at it. He could respect a player, even if he didn't appreciate being played.

Things might have carried on peacefully, if not for the abrupt end of Miss French’s punctuality later that day.

Gold looked at the very expensive timepiece which graced his large, oak desk several times. 3:00 strolled on by, followed in close succession by 3:05, 3:08, 3:10 and 3:13. At 3:20, Rumford was done waiting.

"Dove, is Miss French planning on gracing us with her presence this afternoon?" he inquired over the intercom.

"She hasn't said anything to me,” Dove called, neglecting the intercom as ever. It ought to have been annoying, but Rumford found he was used to it. “I'll email her and-"

"Don't bother," Mr. Gold shouted back.

It was entirely unreasonable of her to upset his schedule like this, after he’d been so understanding this morning. How was he supposed to get any work done without caffeine? Ten years ago – hell, five years ago – he wouldn't have needed it, but that afternoon cuppa had become an integral part of his routine.

With a storm brewing inside, Rum picked up his cane and marched purposefully toward the elevators, preparing to give her a piece of his mind.

He didn't make it past the atrium. He found Belle – tea tray in hand, no less – looking very frustrated, not 10 yards from the museum exit. A man with a scruffy beard stood between them.

"Annabelle, I told you I was sorry. Don't be mad."

"Sorry doesn't cover sending a crossbow bolt though the cover of a 200 year old masterpiece. You could have killed me!"

"It was an accident! And I wouldn't call some chick lit a masterpiece."

She started to push past him. "It shouldn't have been in the annex, never mind cocked and loaded, and you know it! If Rob were here, he'd –"

"Annabelle!" Keith caught her by her left shoulder, easily turning her to face him. The speed of her motion nearly sent the tea things flying.

The man (the one he paid to polish his demonstration pieces, if he recalled) had a roughly a half a foot of height and 80 pounds of muscle on the girl. He utterly overwhelmed her. Gold didn't like it when people damaged his things, and was surprised to discover Miss French vaguely counted.

Breathe in, breathe out. The Curator would never let him hear the end of it if he took to regularly abusing the staff.

"Miss French, you are late. Please go wait for me in my office. And you..." He rounded his full attention on the hulk, voice deathly quiet. "Laddie, you and I are going to go have a few words."

Belle hurried out of the atrium without commenting.

"Mr. Gold…" Keith gulped. Good, the man knew who he was. That would make things easy.

"Let me make myself very clear: you will refrain from damaging or in any other way manhandling what is mine, or I will arrange for something heavy to fall and break your hand. Workman's compensation cases can be very tricky. Are we crystal clear, dearie?"

"The damage to the book was hardly anything, Mr. Gold! A tiny dent. And the cover was falling off it anyway!"

"This is not about the book!" Gold roared at him, the beast in full rage. "See to your tongue, lad."

"Are you threatening me? Just because you've bought-off the Board, you-"

"You'll want to watch how you finish that sentence, dearie. I'm the one with the power here."

"This is ridiculous. I'm calling Anton."

Rumford grimaced. Timothy Anton had a one-stop policy when Gold interfered with his employees, and its name was Archie. Archibald Hopper, the bane of his existence, was the H.R. worker responsible for what Dove referred to as his _people problems_. He hated the buggy little man, but he knew that this ninny didn't have a leg to stand on.

"You do that. Let's all sit down together and discuss the proper use of _crossbows_ in the workplace."

Keith balked and offered a weak apology.

Mr. Gold's knuckles went white on the handle of his cane and a firm snarl spread across his face. He simply turned around and walked away, leaving the man to lick his wounds.

When he made it back up to his office, Dove looked cross with him.

"What the hell happened down there? Miss Belle's white as sheet, London's holding on line 2, Hopper on line 3, and Jefferson texted to say he heard you shouting."

"Continue to hold my calls, Dove."

"You better not be responsible for that," the other man said, nodding in Miss French’s direction.

His glare silenced Dove, but Gold had to begrudgingly respect the other man for speaking up on behalf of the trembling woman he found seated in front of his desk.

"Oh, you're here," she squeaked. "Tea's getting cold."

"Miss French," he started, fully prepared to expound the virtues of punctuality.

Belle shook her head no, cutting him off. To his dismay, he let her win.

With hands only slightly shaking, she poured them each a cup. He reached out and took the chipped one, out of habit.

They drank in silence.

"Thank you for stepping in, Mr. Gold. I was so upset. I don't know what I would have done next."

"Think nothing of it, dearie. Out of curiosity, what book did he hit?"

She pulled a small copy of _Pride and Prejudice_ from her apron pocket, showing him the circular indent in the cover that pressed through to the first dozen pages. Then, almost dazedly, she poked her finger through a matching hole in the canvas over her lap. Had things gone differently, she’d have a permanent scar on her otherwise exquisite legs.

Gold growled. Keith Reeve was going to be _very_ sorry.

Belle left his office feeling almost calm. Then again, it was hard to feel threatened in the presence of Mr. Gold - unless he was the one doing the threatening, in which case anyone in his way better watch out. Being afraid of a brush with Keith Reeve's lax safety standards paled in comparison.

She felt like she owed him... well, if not a hug, then at least a thank you. The problem was that she and Gold didn’t speak. They famously didn’t talk. It had become an art form, their 3PM appointment to ignore one another. Belle looked down at the hole in her apron. No, there had to be more to the Beast of Broadway than all that brooding and bluster he hid behind.

So the next day, she made him an offer. Belle let herself reach out to him, more from courtesy than curiosity, and now she was stuck.

Would it ever end?

Gold was studiously avoiding her gaze now, which usually meant Belle would spend her time translating the French Book rather than making small talk. At least, that's what she would have been doing if her pen hadn't been thrust through five layers of paper in a fit of frustration. Now it was leaking everywhere. Did he try to be cruel, or was it just the standard setting for people who moved around obscene piles of money all day?

She stared him down, but he didn't raise his eyes from his ledger. _Ass_.

It bothered her more that she hadn't expected this behavior than by his rejection, but knowing it was naïve of her to expect anything different did little to ease a wounded ego. Yesterday, he'd spared her a very uncomfortable confrontation with Keith, given her space to decompress when she needed it, and made pleasant conversation. It was almost friendly of him.

He'd even dialed someone in H.R. for her, and that night facilities put up a sign on the door the annex saying weapons had to be peace-tied for cleaning. Nothing about what happened yesterday made her happy, but Mr. Gold at least gave the pretense of kindness, so she'd wanted to reciprocate.

That was a mistake. She'd been more excited about her own accomplishments than her sense of obligation to him, in any case, but it still stung.

As a woman who spent most of her time contemplating and preserving the works of others, Belle rarely pursued her own writing. The Library provided ample opportunities for reading, but it was the French Book which fueled her need to write. Well, that and Gold’s stony silences on the days Dove categorized as _interesting_. Jerk.

Her conclusions still left quite a bit to be desired, but she very much enjoyed reading through some of her better theories about the wig-clad mythic figures. She started jotting down analysis to pass the time, knowing that eventually Gold would dismiss her for the afternoon, and before she knew it there were several pages of translations and well-sourced assessment in front of her.  He'd never once asked what she was working on, and she hadn't volunteered it.

Her notes weren't really _for_ anything, just to work through her doldrums or and give her something to do with her hands while she passed time with him.

It was Ariel, the plucky paralegal, who first suggested she do something with the scraps of writing that littered her work space. She thought her French Book might be worth something to someone, especially the historical voyeurs who loved a good scandal. According to Ariel: "This is New York, and there has to be such a thing as an academic porn journal."

Belle was much more content working on restoration than research, she had four years of undergrad essays and two Master’s theses to thank for that, but it did make her think. She sent a few abstracts for consideration, with no real aspirations of hearing anything back.

That had been weeks ago. Now, after a few sleepless nights spent polishing her prose, she was going to be featured as a "local talent" in a small, peer-reviewed journal that published 4 volumes a year. They invited her to a champagne reception at Fordham, to release the newest issue.

Belle was ecstatic. It wasn't supposed to be this easy to get work into a recognized (if limited) publication. Well, she wasn't on the cover of _The Curator_ or anything, and she supposed that she never would be, but it was something she took pride in. It was all right there, printed on the page, to be indexed in college databases and libraries, even if nobody ever read any of it.

They gave her a dozen maroon invitations and said to pass them out anyone she. It would be a small hob-nob of professors and Ph.D. candidates, with _hors d'oeuvre_ and elbow-rubbing. She gave out a few to her family and friends, but set aside four for Ariel, Dove, Anton, and – on a whim – Gold.  The proverbial olive branch.  A theoretical thank you.

Ariel said she would be delighted to come, and the two shared a much-needed celebratory giggle. Anton was proud. Dove said he would try, but that Bunny’s family was in town.

Mr. Gold was the outlier.

She breezed into his office at 3 PM sharp, and went about her usual business of setting up cups and pouring tea. He greeted her with a small nod, and indicated that she should take her customary seat.

Ten minutes later, the conversation was still echoing through her memory.

"Were you and Dove conspiring against me out there?" he’d quipped. "The two of you looked thick as thieves."

"Oh yes, it's quite the scheme," she’d replied, perhaps a bit more chipper in her recollection than she’d been in reality. "I was just asking if he was free to come to a release party. My work was published, and I thought you and he might -"

"Let me stop you right there, dearie." He held up his hand, refusing her offer. That had been the beginning of the end.

"I don't want there to be any misunderstanding between us. You are, by all accounts, a glorified feather duster.  The two of us fraternizing socially is not..." He trailed off with a wave of his hand, and then stuck his nose back in one of the ledgers.

Belle might have snapped something scathing back at him, if she hadn't frozen in outrage. A glorified feather duster? Fraternizing socially? She put the voucher away, picked up her pen, and tore the paper she was working on. A thick, red stain started to spread across her fingers as the ink tube ruptured.

Mr. Gold just drank his tea. He didn't look at her.

Belle didn't dare pick up her own cup; she might have done something sensible, like thrown it at him.

Only the most basic of self-preservation instincts kept her from giving Gold a piece of her mind. If that's how he wanted it, then fine. She certainly didn't need him there to impress people! He was just the eccentric businessman who infringed twice-a-day on her life. For _tea_ , of all things. Didn't the man know how to boil water?

In that moment, he didn't seem lonely at all: just mean. Mean and determined to exert every bit of power he had over everyone unfortunate enough to cross his path.

He could have just said no thank you. Or lied, and said he was busy. Or lied, and said he would come, but then conveniently forgotten at the last minute. Not that Belle encouraged lying, but sometimes it was kind.

The second his empty cup touched the saucer, she swooped in to collect it, piled it onto the tray, and walked out. There were red ink smears on the white porcelain of his chipped cup, and Belle almost hoped it would stain.

Gold didn't even have the decency to look phased by the abruptness of her departure.

Belle plastered a smile to her face for Ian’s sake and excused herself, making a hasty retreat toward the elevator. Would it really ruin her career if she left him to fend for himself tomorrow morning? And the day after that? After all, the work of a glorified feather duster should be easily replaced.

Belle winced.  That part, at least, wasn't far from the truth.  She'd been the best candidate for her job, obviously, but only a fool would believe there hadn't been others with equally impressive resumes.  She needed her job, and - damn the man - that meant she needed to stay on good terms with the Board.

She ignored Keith's attempt at starting a conversation, slammed the tea tray down on the break room counter, and retreated to the annex. Today's hand-copied pages took shape in a hurry, and if a few of her illuminated imps and devils had more in common with Gold than the faded artwork on the original page, who was going to judge?


	4. Chapter 4

Five days after Miss French's abrupt departure from his office, Gold felt a pair of predatory eyes on him as he eased his way into his building's front lobby. His rivals used to joke that he had a private phone-line to the future, always ten steps ahead, but really he was just observant, and good at judging how far he could press a contract before the opponent began to crack. He trusted his instincts, and right now they were telling him to be on alert.

Rum put as little weight on his cane as possible. He wanted to be ready for anything.

Then it hit him: the faintest whiff of flowers suspended in alcohol, recognizable at a hundred paces. That was the perfume  Dove sent his dates. He saved this fragrance for the ones he found generally pleasant, and chose something more astringent for the rest. Probably he chose that stench to punish him as well, but Gold never said anything about it. Perfume was a fourth or fifth date gift, and that meant the socialite in question was on her way out, regardless of Dove's thoughts on the matter.

He readied himself for the worst. Rumford didn't bother much with interpersonal nonsense, but he always took the upper-hand where he could. He’d even scored a rare victory over the ever-calm Annabelle French last week, although from her reaction he might have been too extreme.

"Mr. Gold? Mr. Gold!" A low, not unpleasant voice was calling for him from somewhere in the crowd, but he hadn't spotted the source.

Whoever let _one of them_ in here was going to be very sorry when he got to the bottom of this.

In the midst of his search for a quick escape, he spotted Belle waiting in line for the lift. She was speaking softly with Jefferson Madden's number two, a tough blonde with a good head on her shoulders. It was almost alarming to see her smiling and talking so easily; she'd been quiet and formal - almost curt - over their afternoon tea breaks. He hadn't wanted to admit that it bothered him, but seeing her relaxed and enjoying herself again off-set their now awkward silences in brilliant counter-point.

He almost felt bad for putting an end to her invitation. It might have been for the best, but he was starting to see the appeal of friendliness, at least where Annabelle was concerned. Rumford was a reasonably intelligent man: he could have allowed her to carry on as she liked (she wasn't overtly malign, he would have picked up on that) without running any real risk of compromising himself. She was, after all, more than adequately beautiful and by all accounts charming.  But if a blunt instrument like Zelena Greene had commented on the disparity of their social stations and accomplishments, the City elite would utterly tear her apart. 

It simply wasn't done, at least not by anyone who wanted to be taken seriously.  He hated to imagine himself as one of the ridiculous old men, frame softened by age, surrounded by a harem of bleach-blonde 20-somethings who couldn't string together a coherent sentence.  Hated the idea of being mocked behind his back.  No, nobody could say that Rumford Gold was having a mid-life crisis, that he was desperate.  It took millions of dollars and a team of juggernaut lawyers to finalize his divorce with the minimum fuss from Millie, but nobody would ever mock his personal life again.

The reminder of his public life bombarded his senses, and Gold re-focused on the haunting perfume in the air. But the distraction of Miss French cost him valuable seconds, and he missed the approach of Marian Leoncourt, with her heels clacking on his marble floor. She stepped in front of him and cut him off.

"Mr. Gold, I've been looking for you, but you wouldn't return my calls. May we speak in private, please? I—"

"Dearie, there's nothing you have that I want. You got sloppy. You were dropped. There's no more good will between us, so I suggest that you go your merry way and learn to enjoy the meager luxuries of a man living on an academic's salary."

She slapped him in the face. Hard.

"How dare you? That is not what I—"

"Security!" Gold shouted. Three enormous men with tactical gear on over their uniforms pushed through the gathering crowd. They were all ex-military. He only hired men who'd seen active duty.

Now the rubber-neckers weren’t even trying to hid their interest in the proceedings. Passers-by stared openly, many slack-jawed, and more than a few halted all together to see what the Beast of Broadway was up to.

"Please escort Miss Leoncourt out of my building," Rumford instructed.

"No!" she cried, struggling against them. "Mr. Gold, stop it – we need to talk!"

"That's certainly an opinion," he quipped, turning his back.

"Get your hands off of her!" shouted a familiar voice from somewhere in the crowd. "Greg, I'm not kidding, hands off. Can't you see she's pregnant?"

Gold's brain stuttered to a halt and Miss French forced her way into the crowd.

"I've got my orders, Belle…" the largest of his goon squad responded, but their collective grips loosened.

"Well use your head! This is clearly stressful for her! Marian, are you okay?" Belle asked her, grabbing Rumford's hand and pulling him back into the fray.

"I'm fine. I'm _fine_ ," Marian repeated, running her palm over a barely swollen belly. "I'm only a few months along."

"Congratulations," Belle grinned.

She'd heard about the baby from Dr. Loxley – he'd announced the good news not long after returning to the museum, to cheers and claps on the back all around – but it never really counted until you congratulated the mother. Belle liked Marian: she was one of the few socialites Belle knew, and the only one who valued a decent man over a decent stock portfolio. It was refreshing.

"If you think that paternity test is going to hold water," Gold started, but Belle gave his hand a tug to shut him up.

"Mr. Gold, will you just hear her out?" she whispered. "Take her up to your office maybe? I can bring tea..." The swarm of onlookers didn't need to overhear every particular. Not now, when some of the foot traffic had finally started moving.

"The brat's not mine," he growled, glaring daggers at the pair of them.

"Well obviously not," Marian gasped. She looked horrified at the prospect. "We haven't… I mean, we never… But that's exactly what I wanted to talk to you about!" The tan-skinned scowled at the remaining bystanders, and to their credit some backed off.

"And you thought we ought to do that at full volume, in my lobby, dearie?" he all but shouted.

Belle gulped. Gold really wasn't going to back down, and he was making a spectacle of his personal life. The intensely proud, private man she'd very nearly come to know would have been mortified, but his temper was getting the best of him at the moment.

"Well you wouldn't return my calls!" Marian yelled back, ripping Belle from her reflections.

She did her best to calm the other woman as well, but that required letting go of Gold's hand, and when she did he redoubled his efforts to look bristly. She almost gave up: if they wanted to shout, they could shout. It was none of her business, she just hadn't been able to stand by and watch a squad of paramilitary thugs man-handle a struggling, pregnant lady.

Belle stepped back and let them have it out for a moment.

"Why should I?" Gold spat.

"Because it's basic human decency?"

"I caught you with another man, on my property. You want to talk to me about human decency? Our agreement clearly stated—"

"Oh, that's rich, Mr. Gold. What we agreed to was simple fodder for the gossip columns. I met Rob at one of _your_ stupid fund raisers – we talked for hours, and you didn't even notice I was gone. I told you I wouldn't be available anymore after our last that night, were you even listening? No, of course not!"

"Then what the bloody hell are you still screaming about?" he roared, matching her volume.

Belle winced.

"Because I'm starting to show, you idiot, and the timing would imply…. As soon as the paparazzi get wind of this, they're going to assume you're the father. I was trying to give you a courtesy call!"

"Oh, is that what it was? Or were you perhaps more interested in ensuring that I didn't let slip that New York's Sweetheart got knocked-up by some soon-to-be-unemployed nobody? Whatever would your poor uncle say?"

"No, Gold, I wasn't! And for your information, Rob and I are engaged!"

"Good bloody luck!" he spat. "Now get the hell out of my building."

Marian made a sour face, turned on her heel, and marched off. Greg's men followed at a respectful distance, and most had the decency to look bashful about it.

Greg Aston, the only member of security she actually recognized, didn't seem to know what to do with his arms when he wasn't subduing someone. But he was a decent guy – simple and tough, but decent. Belle was glad – this could have been very ugly otherwise.

"Come on," Belle offered quietly, attempting to lead Gold toward the elevator reserved for express trips between the executive suites and the lobby. Gold balked.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he growled.

"Trying to end the floor show before you go in for an encore," Belle answered, placing her hands on her hips. It was the most they'd spoken since their fight (if you could even call it that), and she wasn't in the mood to pander.

"You shouldn't have involved yourself," he said, stalking after her. He pressed his thumb to the security pad and summoned the express elevator while the crowd diligently tried _not_ to notice him.

"Hush," she replied. To their mutual surprise (but his most of all), he complied. "What kind of tea do you want this morning? I have-"

Gold cut her off, his voice murderous. "Miss French, are you entirely certain this is a conversation you want to have right now? I assure you, I could have you out on your arse with Loxley and his armor polish before the lift door opens."

"Don't take this out on Rob – he has a child on the way, and he's the best at what he does. Besides, I don't think you're the kind of man to go out of his way to punish a baby just because of bruised pride."

Gold glared at her, but said nothing. It occurred to Belle that, perhaps, there was more than hubris involved.  Nobody reacted this badly to a casual acquaintance being dropped.

"If you… if you had feelings for Marian, then I'd understand how—"

"No," Gold snarled, wrenching away from her. "There were no _feelings_. What we had was business, pure and simple. She had one job: to look presentable and not embarrass me. And when she took up with that… with that…"

"Very charming and internationally recognized medieval expert?" Belle panned.

"That tattooed _plebe_ ," Gold bit out. "She failed to fulfill her end of our bargain."

"That's quite a sad outlook on things," said Belle, stepping into the elevator with him. "You might as well call an agency and hire a model, if that's all you want; then there's no chance of your signals mixing."

Gold gave her a pained look that said he'd rather talk about anything else, but she finally had him calming down and wasn't about to let him retreat into his own head again.

"It would not do to have some six-foot Amazon with no pedigree and no manners traipsing around with me, giving the impression that I could not hold a lady's interest for more than one evening. It's all about perception, Miss French. Dove provides quite the lucrative perks package for the heiress and ingénues of the City, and I promise you that Miss Leoncort is not alone in having taken advantage of the fact."

"But it's not as though you can ever keep something like that totally detatched," Belle said. "Is it? I mean, you could find someone that you liked. You don't have to make it so… so…"

"Transactional? Whorish?"

"I was going to say impersonal," she blushed. "You're not firing her; you're breaking up – technically. Since manners are so important to you, I'd think you'd be willing to perform the minimal break-up courtesies."

"Like taking her calls and letting her vent her financial woes to me? Not likely. And as to your insistence that what she and I did was somehow not a qualified form of employment, well… I'll make you a deal, Miss French," Gold sneered, a curious glint in his eye.

"You take the insipid Miss Boyd's place as my escort to the Mayor's Charity Ball this Friday, and you can decide for yourself whether or not it's work. And when you decide, quite rightly, that I am wholly vindicated in my behavior toward Ms. Leoncourt, I will even ask Dove to send you the usual gift assortment. After all, I can't afford to short-change my _employees_."

"Is that _Ashley_ Boyd? The actress?" asked Belle, completely derailed by the revelation.

"Who else? I am, after all, a man of means with a reputation to protect."

"What do you get out of it if I go?"

"Other than the pleasure of your company? I get the gratification of proving that my view is both superior and correct." He had the audacity to smirk at her again.

"Deal," Belle seethed. The man was an ass, but if it made him eat his words about fraternizing socially with glorified feather dusters, she felt she could rise to the bait. "But only if you promise not to go out of your way to make this uncomfortable for me."

"Now that wasn't part of the agreement, dearie."

"It is now," she insisted.  "But I want to be clear that I'm going as your friend, because I think you really need one today.  Based on the way you've been treating me and - apparently - everyone else, this could be a big mistake.  So I'm telling you now: if you're going to be a jerk all night, I'll walk away."

"You have my word I shall behave," Gold agreed, shame-faced.  The elevator went ding.

He was surprised, both at the words he found himself saying and at her easy acceptance. Oh, but the exquisite pleasure of making his sweet Miss French see that the world was not sunshine and daisies. Yes, he could work with that.

"I'll have Barneys deliver your dress directly,"  he said, stopping the door from closing with his hand on the jamb.  The challenge in his eye said she wasn't going to like whatever he had in mind.

"I can take care of-" Belle began, already wishing she'd objected to the compensation clauses he'd added.

"No, no," Gold insisted. "I always provide an ensemble for my guests, which they are always welcome to keep. It would be unreasonable to ask you to procure Versace on your salary, at any rate. Consider it the first job perk."

The lift dinged and the doors began to close. What exactly had she signed up for?

She didn't notice the well-dressed woman in black stilettos until it was too late. Now it was just the two of them, trapped in the elevator.

"I see you and Rum had a bit of a lover's spat," the strawberry blond woman gloated.

"Excuse me?" Belle couldn't have heard that right.

"You and Mr. Gold, dear. Oh, I'm sorry, was that supposed to be a secret? Not very discrete, are we?"

"I am not sleeping with Mr. Gold!" Belle insisted, too appalled and shocked to come up with anything more intelligent. Is that what he told people?

"Whatever you say. I'd be careful, though. Gold digger is a hard reputation to beat." And with that, the woman left, stepping out through the opening silver doors.

Belle was livid. People didn't really say that about her, did they? Did he? If she found out that Mr. Gold started a rumor about her as some male power fantasy... But no. He rode rough-shod over the people around him sometimes, but lying about sex didn't fit with what she knew of him. In fact, he went out of his way to ensure his employees didn't get any sort of romantic (or friendly) notions about him.

Then again, how much did she know, really?

Her nerves were frayed and her adrenaline was fading. She ignored the other woman, who got off several floors above the museum, and tried not to let her anxiety show.

When she got off on her floor, a new email from Ian registered on her phone.

_That was some display, Miss Belle. And I just heard about the Ball. You know you're in for a long night?_

It wasn't really a question, just a statement in disguise, confirming what she already knew: Gold was not going to make this arrangement easy for her.

Belle typed out a reply. _I'll be alright, thanks Dove. But I'm slipping him decaf this morning._

She got one word back: _Wise_.


	5. Chapter 5

As predicted, Gold took full advantage of their afternoon tea and the end of her silent-treatment to brief her on the stipulations and expectations for the evening.

"You will be responsible for looking and acting the part of a demure socialite."

"Yes."

"You will fetch my drinks for me, you will smile when addressed, and you will not – under any circumstances – flirt with other men. If you don't know what something is, don't touch it. If you don't know who someone is, don't speak."

Belle nodded. She'd been biting her tongue around the man for the past week; she could manage a few hours over _hors d'oeuvres_ and champagne, if he was determined to be brusk and business-like.

"Good. I'll send a car to fetch you at six." He smirked a little, and then sent her on her way. "Oh, and one other thing, dearie..."

Uh-oh, Belle thought. He had something up his sleeve.

"As my guest for the evening, you represent this company. See if you can't do something about those stains on your fingers, hm?"

Belle didn't let herself flinch, she just smiled politely.

“You know,” she observed as she gathered the tea things, “You‘d have a nice voice, if you weren’t trying to intimidate me. Edinburgh?”

“Glasgow,” he blinked. “Sydney?”

“Melbourne,” Belle answered. “But we moved here when I was young. Most people don’t pick up on the accent.”

Gold nodded. It was the first time either of them exchanged any sort of personal information.

“See, that wasn't so bad, was it?” she smiled.  "You spoke to me like I was a grown woman and everything."

"I, uh..."

"I've been out in public before, you know.  You don't have to worry about me. So loosen up, because this is a friendly outing, and you're not going to steam-roll me into being your silent accessory."

"You're asking me trust you," Gold surmised.

"I'm asking you to try."  She swanned out of the room, head held high.

When the door closed, Gold took a deep sip from the chipped cup she'd missed. Miss French did a fair job of appearing nonplussed, but he knew he'd gotten under her skin when she forgot the cup. Good. She ought to be worried – there was nothing easy about the kind of companionship he required; his dates definitely had to do more than stand and smile all night, and he was more than willing to admit it took a specific skill-set and intelligence to keep the image-obsessed press at bay. They were not the sort of women you could underestimate, even if he was contracting them for the most superficial of causes.

He took another sip from his pilfered cup. Something was off, but he couldn't place it, and hadn’t bothered during his diatribe. Then it came to him: the librarian slipped him bloody decaf. That was twice in one day!

A gentle knock interrupted his thoughts.

"Mind if I come in?" Greene all but purred, sauntering in and tossing her strawberry blonde locks over one shoulder.

"Would you bugger off if I said I did?"

She had the audacity to laugh at him. "I just thought I should remind you, Rumford dear, that you're not only representing Gold Enterprises, but also the offices of Green & Walsh, when you attend the Mayoral Ball tonight. I heard a dirty little rumor that you've dumped Ashley Boyd.  After that little display in the lobby, I'm sure that was wise.  But are you certain that your afternoon delight is a better choice? She's a cute little cream-puff, I’ll grant you, but you ought to have someone of substance."

"And I suppose you'd go in her place, aye?" surmised Gold. Lessons in subtlety had been utterly lost on Zelena Greene.

"If I must," she tittered. “Can you imagine the pair of us arm-in-arm on the front page? It’d be a power-statement. Legacies would quake.”

"I think not," Gold replied, staring her down until the long silence cracked her resolve not to talk first.

"That little piece of yours is only after one thing," she spat.

Gold still didn't say anything, and Zelena stormed away in a huff.

Zelena liked to watch him squirm, that was obvious to anyone, but as she couldn't move up any higher on his shite-list, there was no point in worrying about it yet.

Instead, he called Barneys and asked, very specifically, for the middle-of-the-line (designer, but not bespoke) dress that he had in mind. A dancer from the _corps du ballet_ practically begged him for it not two months prior, but at the time his answer was no. It was not at all suitable for a night at the Opera.

For Regina's fundraiser, though? Well, he practically owned the Mayor, though she was head-strong and fought him tooth and claw where it counted. She could afford to pick a fight with him now and then, but not over the contents of his date's closet. Besides, the infinitely simple dresses and airy skirts that Miss French favored in the office implied that something skin-tight and sparkly would give him an advantage.

His dates had to look the part: make-up, hair, body, teeth, nails, shoes… that alone could be an occupational hazard, but they also had to speak intelligently and network through the evening – be noticed, but not too much. It was definitely not all fun and champagne with Rumford Gold, and Belle was going to find that out.

The dress was, perhaps, a bit cruel of him; but she needed to understand that he didn't have some soft underbelly of attachment to Marian Leoncourt, of all people.  For some reason, that mattered very much to him.  And if Belle admitted defeat at the first hurdle?  No, she wouldn't.  She was made of sterner stuff than that.  Maybe he did like her, with those bright blue eyes and an accent you wouldn’t soon forget, but she bloody well needed to accept that money changed people.  Perhaps it didn't make them better, exactly, but her expectations for him should certainly change because of it.  That was all that mattered in the end: how much you had, and what you spent it on.  Love faded. Families split.  Businesses collapsed.  Power shifted.  Nothing was forever, but some  _things_   - his Dark Castle Collection, for instance - were built to last.

About twenty minutes after Belle retreated to the annex to mull over the consequences of her non-date with Mr. Gold, the department store called to ask after her measurements. Half an hour after that, a courier arrived with her dress. As she held up the glittering, sequin-laden cloth and matching stilettos, the real implications of their deal started to set in: Gold wanted her to look like a woman who was bought.

Well, she supposed she was. Not for money, power, or prestige, but for the sake of her pride and a friend's dignity, she'd gone head-to-head with the Beast. And he was a beast, in that moment; it wouldn't do any good to pretend otherwise.  The question was: why? 

She’d meant to reach out to him before today. True, he’d been an ass about it, but wasn’t this going to accomplish the same thing? The same thing, but on his terms; maybe that’s what was bothering her so much.  Everything was on his terms, and - if anything- Rumford Gold needed to have that sense of entitlement shaken up.  

Belle just couldn’t ignore the feeling nibbling at her heart that there was more to the man than blisteringly bad moods and a tall building. When he wasn't being beastly, they actually shared quite companionable silences between them, but those had more or less ceased over the past week.  Not that it was _entirely_ his fault.

She looked at the dress again.

Belle wasn't a stranger to the city's night life. She didn't get invitations to opening nights or the Met Gala, but she attended her fair share of museum benefits and gallery soirees, and she knew she would be tapdancing down the border of bad taste wearing this. Well, people would certainly notice them together, if that's what he was after. But that was right, wasn't it? The whole point of this was that Gold wanted her to experience that sort of life, and to acknowledge that it was easier to keep things transactional. He wanted her to decide that spending time with him, in a formal setting, was universally acknowledged as a chore.

Except it really didn't seem that way. Bringing him tea ought to have felt like a chore, but it hadn't. Not usually. At least not until the fight.  It wasn't even much of a fight, just some very arrogant remarks on his end and her refusal to move past it.  She felt lost in a gulf of misunderstanding, but at least the dress was something she could fix.

A dress like this took a considerable amount of effort, and Belle never would have bothered with it in her day-to-day life. Remembering the woman who'd cornered her in the elevator made her stomach churn. If she saw Belle out in a dress like this, the gossip would only get that much worse, especially once the press got wind of Marian's pregnancy.  Rob's fiance hadn't been wrong about that: people would talk. Well, screw them. Nobody decided Annabelle French’s fate but her, and they sure as hell didn't have the right to judge Marian.

Gold had miscalculated if he thought something as silly as sequins would bowl her over. She liked short skirts and low neck-lines, though her choices were usually more tasteful than this. They weren't the sorts of clothes one wore at work without a cardigan or a pair of opaque tights, but shortness and tightness were not enough – in their own right – to daunt her.

At least not until she tried it on.

The dress came up high on her neck and stretched into long sleeves, but the back was entirely absent, crisscrossed by thin cords to keep it on, and the hem ruled out wearing it with stockings. And that was it: it covered her breasts, stomach, bum and unmentionables in enough sequins to kit-out a Vegas showgirl.

She might have liked it, if not for the fabric, but Belle couldn't help but feel like a Muppet. Although… Gold had mentioned that the dress would be hers? Then he couldn't complain if she got a little creative with it.

It seemed her saving grace would be her height. These dresses were sewn for women who stood at a respectable 5'10'' or 6' tall. Someone had custom-hemmed this one in the department store for Belle's modest 5'2'' frame and – for once – she was thankful for it. The dress might have ended just centimeters below the apex of her legs if they were any longer, but she had at least an extra inch and a half of fabric to play with if she picked the new stitches out.

Then again, if it all started to unravel… No, she had to do this. It was time to be brave.

If she wore her hair in a high bun, she could make sure the gap in the back made an elegant line along her neck, rather than a sloppy show of skin for its own sake. As long as she didn't over-accessorize and didn't break her legs in the shoes, she might pull it up from trashy to just in questionable taste.

Belle took a deep breath, and she remembered the soft look on his face when he managed to let all the pretence fade. Yes, she could definitely do this. The dress, despite being tacky, came from a seriously expensive label. If anyone mocked it in the papers, that would be a reflection on the designer, and maybe on Gold’s stylist. No one would care what an art historian and bibliophile from Maine had to say about it. Belle was willing to bet the daring Italian couture team would beat her senseless if they knew what kind of bargain-basement alterations she had in mind for it, but that didn’t stop her from reaching for her mounting tape.

As soon as Belle arrived home on the train, vigilantly guarding her new shoes and garment bag, she slipped off her bra and panties to avoid lines and set to work on the dress. When everything was satisfactory, she showered, shaved, and started applying makeup with all the severity of Pict in war paint. She thought Mr. Gold, the bullying Glaswegian, would appreciate the metaphor.

The panic almost caught her again. She had very resolutely not thought about Mr. Gold or that horrid woman on the elevator as much as possible today. She had to compartmentalize that, if she wanted to remain civil all night.

When she finished curling her hair and scrubbing the last flecks of ink from under her nails, the driver rang. Belle pulled on a coat longer than her dress, felt momentarily silly, and threw her shoulders back proudly, despite everything. She was taped, glued and painted, but she was not going to break.

At five-of-six, she descended the stairs of her walk-up apartment and went out onto the curb to wait.

Mr. Gold was waiting in the back seat of the car when it pulled up. The driver opened her door (she'd half expected to see Mr. Dove, but it seemed his evenings were his own), helped her to her seat, and the car pulled away. Apparently the driver had no time to waste on paltry things like greetings and exchanging names.

"You will wear this," Gold said, not looking up from the device in his lap. He opened a heavy, wooden jewelry box and produced two four-pronged combs with stunning sapphires and silver filigree.

"Those are insured for more than you earn in a year," Gold informed her. He indicated that she should turn around, so Belle slid to the edge of the seat and presented her back to him. He slid the combs into her hair without so much as a tangle.

"If these are stolen I could never afford to replace them," Belle balked.

"I know."

Belle gulped, but just as she steeled herself to refuse the jewels he reached up and tucked away a stray hair. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the tinted window.

“Oh, wow,” Belle breathed. “I’ve got to be honest with you, Mr. Gold, being responsible for something this valuable is a little disconcerting. These are amazing – truly, museum quality. I feel a bit like an O. Henry character, so I suppose I can’t complain.”

“Don’t cut it,” Gold replied in a soft voice.

“What?”

“Your hair. The combs. Weren’t you referencing _The Gift of the Magi_?” he wondered. His hands flitted near her curls, but he refrained from touching.

“Oh, yes. Silly of me. Yes, of course.” Then she laughed – really laughed. “I suppose it’s a bit late in the night to cut off my hair and spoil your gift. Loan. Sorry.”

Gold chortled. “No worries. Shocking though this may be, Miss French, I do trust you. You spend your days enshrined with some of the most valuable objects in my building; it’d be a bit pig-headed, even for me, to think you couldn’t manage with a few trinkets this evening.”

Belle appreciated that more than she could say. “But what were you going to do if I hadn’t worn my hair up?” she teased.

“I, er…” He was speechless.

She’d finally stumped him! Not even the skin-tight sleeve of sequins clinging to her skin could cheapen that victory. Mr. Gold with nothing to say was totally different and entirely more awkward than the power-broker who simply sat at his desk and refused to speak to her. Belle was glad – he wasn’t who she thought, and that could only bode well for the evening.

The errant curl he’d tucked slipped free again. "I'll, um, just fix this..." she whispered, blushing.

Mr. Gold caught her hand. "No matter," he told her. "I'll get used to it."

The combs were set off beautifully by her slightly tousled curls, and they said nothing more about it. Instead, she struck up a wonderful and wholly unexpected conversation about _Cabbages and Kings_.

Ultimately, Belle was happy that they managed to avoid another icy silence on their drive. They arrived just as she was really hitting her stride on _t_ he entire banana republic concept, and she started mentally counting down the time before she would have to shed her protective outer garment and face the paparazzi. To her surprise, it was Mr. Gold who – rather smoothly, despite the cane – opened her door and helped her to her feet.

There were cameras flashing, but not as many as she’d seen in movies and on red-carpet affairs. Perhaps word hadn't yet spread of the shouting match between New York's most famous financier and the niece of its railroad king? All told, the city’s politicians were the main focus of the evening, and Belle felt more at ease.

"I hope you're ready for this, Miss French," Gold whispered, ushering her into the building.

Belle nodded and breathed deeply. "I gave you my word that I would be."

"Ah yes. Of course you're right – but I must admit, I rather expected you to call it off." And, on what Belle felt was a rather ominous note, he helped her out of her pea coat.

Belle shivered a little, feeling the night air drifting through the lobby and licking against her unclothed back. A few raised eyebrows scanned her, but she knew it was nowhere near as bad as it could have been. She could feel proud, she supposed. She'd made the most of what she was given.

Gold, for his part, had the decency to look a little shocked.

Good. Let him see what happened when you let someone else do your shopping for you. She wasn't the most elegantly turned-out woman in the room, but she wasn't a tart either, and she was not going to give him the satisfaction of seeing her doubts.

He offered her an arm, and they walked in together.


	6. Chapter 6

Mr. Gold had her running around fetching him things as soon as they entered the ball room, his eyes following her (following his combs, more likely) like a hawk hunting rabbits. She realized about half an hour into the night why he treated dates for these engagements like employees. It was because he needed help and didn't like to ask for it.

He couldn't manage the champagne flutes, handshakes, mingling, and animated conversation _and_ keep a hand on his cane for balance. Gold was just the kind of man who'd rather commoditize the whole thing than take a chance that his partner would aid him simply because she wanted to, and Belle couldn't say that she was surprised.

The over-all effect of him wouldn't have suffered much if he'd been forced to manage without an extra pair of hands – he still stood with an air of power and confidence so absolute that most people never noticed the cane – but it wouldn't have been flawless. The illusion of him would start to crack, and underneath all the hype and wealth, he was just a man.

Even in her ludicrous heels, Gold still had a couple of inches on her, and now the shoes that she initially thought couldn't possibly have been a single millimeter taller seemed meticulously planned and calculated. She knew intuitively that he would never sacrifice the small power advantage of bearing and stature by letting her tower over him, just for the sake of making her feet hurt all evening.

She had to stifle a smile when she recalled his remark about models being Amazons compared to him. Mr. Gold was positively compact, in a handsome way. Compact, but very strong. He projected an air of confidence around him, and if Belle hadn’t seen the mask slip in the car, she’d have believed there was nothing more. But Gold had depth, she was coming to realize, and if she could convince him to stop snapping at her every time she tried to get close to him, they might even become friendly. Baby steps. She’d already been burned once, and wasn’t keen to repeat the experience.

Belle was pulled from her quiet musing by a large hand on her bare back. Not for the first time, she felt Gold’s hawkish eyes on her, but it was the first time she’d been grateful to have her own ally in the room. She stepped away from the unwanted touch and turned to face the interloper. She was almost bowled over by the scent of whiskey pouring off Keith Reeve.

Mr. Gold was speaking to a group of men in the periphery; they were about half way through a thinly veiled alpha-male showdown, so Belle doubted she'd get any help from that quarter. Still, he was watching her. She could feel it, like a safety net. The key thing would be not to embarrass either of them if things got too awkward, and to hope he’d step in if needed. Ever since the incident with the crossbow, Belle felt justifiably nervous around her co-worker.

"Annabelle," grinned Keith. "I didn’t expect to see you on tonight, let alone with the Beast! Why didn't you tell me you were coming?"

"I didn't know I was attending until the last minute," she replied honestly, easing herself further away from him. "Why are you here?"

Belle was absolutely positive Keith could not afford a seat at this event on his salary. And if he could, he probably wouldn't choose to spend it all on the Mayor's election campaign.

"That would be the charming Mallory Ficent’s fault." He nodded to a middle-aged woman, gabbing quietly in the corner. Belle gulped – the woman she was talking to was the Mayor! The actual Mayor of New York City. Belle had only ever seen her on television.

His date's clothes were a little tight and she wore a fierce shade of lipstick, but she had the stone-cold look of a woman who knew what she wanted and was used to getting it. The idea that someone like that gave two figs what Keith Reeve thought was enough to make her laugh aloud, but she tried to disguise it as a cough.

Well, good for Ms. Ficent! Why shouldn't the women in this circle also have their fun? After all, Mr. Gold had been planning to bring Ashley Boyd – and she was little more than half his age. Belle felt much less out of place. It was all about status with these people – that's what he'd been trying to tell her before. She’d believed him – she wasn’t ignorant – but had wanted to believe the account was colored by Gold’s cynicism as well.

Ah, but _Mrs_. Ficent wore a wedding ring. That was either very nostalgic or very sloppy of her, and Belle wasn't sure that Keith cared which. She looked again at the older, dark-blonde woman sheathed in a high-wasted, cream skirt, in close collusion with Mayor Mills. No, there was nothing sloppy about it. If Mallory Ficent was wearing a diamond on her left ring finger, it was because she liked it there.

"Come and meet her, I think she would love to find out who designed this ravishing dress of yours." Keith put his hand on the small of her back again, and started to push her toward the Mayor's corner.

Belle did her best to dig in her heels. She did not want to be made ridiculous in front of Mayor Mills, she did not want to draw undue attention to herself, and she especially did not want Keith's hands on her bare skin, drifting toward her bum! In any other circumstances she'd have given him very loud marching orders, but Gold expressly warned her against embarrassing him, and a shouting match in a crowded room of New York news-makers definitely counted.

"Sorry," she said, lying through her teeth. "I think Mr. Gold needs a fresh drink."

"Nonsense, Annabelle," he protested. He ran his hand up her side and groped the swell of her chest, making Belle's stomach churn.

"Aye, boy," growled Gold, sneaking up on them. "I think you'll find that I do." He placed himself between the taller man and Belle, and then blindly passed her his wine glass. She grabbed it like a life-line and made for the nearest member of the wait staff.

When she returned, Mr. Gold was standing alone and glaring daggers at her. Belle drummed up her courage and smiled at him. Most of the people in this room had looked at her less than kindly through the course of the night, and she wasn't about to let one more gaze shake her resolve to make it through this experiment.

"Thank you," said Belle.

Gold didn't respond immediately. He calculated the room again.

Begrudgingly, he had to admit that Belle's face showed only confidence and cool indifference to his wardrobe choices. She was attentive and anticipated his needs, so much so that it took him the better part of the evening to realize she was doing it intentionally. As he worked the room, she seemed to fit at his side naturally. It wasn't until he'd watched her purposefully take a longer route back to his side (so she could hand him a drink to his free hand without drawing attention to his cane) that he noticed she was catering to him, specifically.

Then it became a game. He would watch her at it, to see what small things she came up with, content that anyone as actively thoughtful and considerate as she would feel as though she'd put in a full day at work by the end of the evening. And, once the appeal of winning their little wager started to wear off, he found other reasons to watch her.

It was research, he told himself. If all of his escorts could behave so well, he would not have such a high turn-over rate. Dove would appreciate that, at least.

Gold had been watching Belle out the corner of his eye, listening to some half-baked plea for research funding, when he noticed her mask of confidence slip. It happened when Reeve pawed her. And what in seven bloody hells did that rat think he was doing?

Gold was quite certain that he'd conveyed every possible consequence of Reeve touching his things, but apparently the lad wouldn't learn. He half expected Belle to slap him, but instead she met the man in conversation, openly speculating on Mallory and de Ville. Reeve seemed to be in a position to offer her an introduction. He'd been very explicit that she was not to flirt with other men, nor make introductions without him.

She was _his_ date. _With_ him. He’d remind her.

Gold watched as Belle leaned away from Reeve and retreated into herself. It was the first time he saw her flinch all evening, and Gold hastened his approach.

Perhaps he was rash in his assessments of Miss French – she was constantly surprising him. But Gold wouldn't tolerate Reeve's flagrant disobedience of his orders, and Gold was quite certain he’d explained that the cost of touching Belle again would be the other man’s hand. He wasn't a monster – no blood would be shed in public - but Gold was nothing if not patient.

The lad was all too easy to send running, and Rum took great pleasure in it. When he reunited with Miss French his nerves were fluttering all over the place – suddenly too hot, too tense, too aware of the eyes in the room trained on her. She was the brightest, most perfect specimen in the room, and he hated that other men had noticed. Whatever she and Reeve had been up to, it was likely that they'd noticed that too, and Gold was suddenly unsure of himself. Maybe he wasn't her champion afterall, but an annoying older chaperone. He lashed out, out of habit.

"Are you quite pleased with yourself, dearie?"

"I'm sorry?" Belle was really doing her best to remain unaffected and not let her annoyance break through as she handed him a full glass.

"People are staring,” he whispered. “I very specifically recall telling you not to embarrass me."

Belle looked around the room, confused. People? What people? There were a few eyes on her, but nothing excessive.

"No more now than at any other time this evening, and certainly not as though I caused a commotion. That group over there is hoping I'll drop something and bend over to pick it up, I think."

Her eyes said everything her voice couldn't: _You put me in this dress. Wasn't the point for people to stare at me?_

Gold knew what those men were thinking. He'd been thinking it himself when she slid out of her coat. The temptation to touch her hair again was becoming dangerous.

He couldn’t pinpoint when or how, but somewhere between quiet teas and shouting matches in the lobby, between O. Henry and hair combs, he’d completely lost his mind. Damn Zelena and her damned meddling; she’d been keeping him on edge for weeks, and he’d let her. Belle was beautiful. Belle was sweet. Belle being an educated and capable professional rather than an heiress, celebrity, or titan of industry was not a matter for shame. What the hell had he been thinking?

He had the decency to look sorry.

"We're done here," Gold murmured. He offered her his arm and they turned to leave.

Belle could have sworn she saw him stare down a few of her more obvious admirers on their way to the cloak room. Gold folded her back into her coat quickly and signaled the valet. She thought he looked genuinely sorry, and even though he made her mad enough to spit nails most days, she couldn't ignore that now – when she'd actually needed him – he was behaving decently. The Mayor's Ball didn't end for another two hours, at least, and there was bound to be an important after-party. He could have made her see it through to the bitter end.

As he was helping her into the car, her stomach gave an audible growl.

"Have you eaten, Miss French?"

"Er, not really."

Without asking her opinion, Gold ordered the driver to drop them off at a 3-star restaurant.

Rumford did not like to be wrong, but more than that he didn't like that he couldn't trust his instincts. Was this guilt? Jealousy? Envy? All seemed equally unlikely. The least he could do was not send her home hungry.

He rationalized that her small, quiet reactions to being pawed at by the other man had appeared much louder to him than the rest of the room. To him, they'd felt like screams, but that was only because he knew her – or was starting to – and as the one regularly responsible for sending her into fidgets or furies, he'd gotten quite good at recognizing the signs. But he’d been so awful, and wasted so much time...

“Actually, could we not?” Belle asked, drawing him from his reverie.

Gold paled, but acquiesced. “Of course, you’ll want to be getting home.”

“No, it’s not… I mean, I’m up for dinner, but couldn’t we go somewhere more casual? I’m prepared to concede that being stared at all night is exhausting, if that helps. Come on, I know an all-night diner in a nice part of town?” Belle offered.

Gold nodded, and Belle gave the driver instructions. They both ordered iced tea and burgers, and Gold asked for extra pickles.

He was so lost in thought that he didn't even notice when the waitress brought them their drinks.

Miss French pulled him from his reverie. She was offering him her lemon slice.

“Considerate, but unnecessary,” Gold declined.

“I just thought you might have wanted extra, since you always like so much in your cup each morning.” Belle's tentative smile reminded him of the look on her face when he'd said they could leave, and he gripped his cane a little tighter.

“You’re a very thoughtful person, aren’t you?” asked Gold.

“And you’re only now realizing?” Belle teased.

He nodded sheepishly.

“I’m not,” Rum said. “I don't think about... I mean, I analyze – to the brink of insanity, sometimes – but I’m not…” he trailed off, with a flutter of his hand, indicating that she should fill in the blanks.

“If you’re not thoughtful, then you are at the very least thinking,” Belle allowed. “That’s more than you get from most people. I was thinking. Earlier, I mean. You’re not at all the way you pretend to be, and I’m glad.”

“Oh no, my bite is much worse than my bark,” he quipped. “Tread cautiously.”

Belle laughed as the waitress delivered their plates.

“Really, though, you’ve got this sort of persona you project. And yes, sometimes you are nasty. But you’ve always done the right thing in the end, and that’s what really matters.”

“Have I?” he was genuinely surprised.

“Sure. You’ve been kind to me when I really needed it, and you’re easy to work with.”

He quirked an eyebrow.

“Easy to work _near_ , then. I’ve done some of my best work sitting in your office, actually. They, erm… they published some of it, recently. Besides, apart from being a demanding prat when things aren’t going your way, you’re quite funny. You get this dopey little look on your face when you’re happy.”

“Is that a fact?”

“Mm-hm,” Belle nodded.

Gold chuckled. “Is this your way of trying to win our wager, dearie?”

Belle just rolled her eyes. “No, no. I’ll admit that it’s difficult being so on-display all evening. But you should admit that you handled Marian badly.”

“I believe my end of the deal had to do with whether or not my companions actually _liked_ me,” he replied, but Belle could tell she’d struck a chord with him.

“Well it wasn’t really,” she told him. “It was about why you felt the need to treat a friend of mine so badly. I’m sure you have your fair run of bad dates. Everybody does. But Marian’s really nice, and she and Rob are very happy.”

“I’m not going to fire Loxley, if that’s why you’re worried.”

“Of course you’re not,” Belle grinned. “I told you that you make the right decisions in the end.”

For all his internal debate, Gold still didn't know what to say to the gorgeous woman sitting across from him. Luckily for him, Belle was brave.

"Thank you for saying we could leave the party. That was thoughtful of you. I don’t think I said it earlier, but I really did appreciate it.”

"The room was getting stuffy," he offered back, accent thickening. "I didn't... I didn't mean to bring you into such a... _stuffy_ place."

She nodded, seeming to accept that that was the closest thing he could muster to an apology.

After that, their conversation flowed easily. The burgers and fries vanished, followed by two more iced teas. By the time he helped her into her coat, all he could imagine was slinking up behind her and wrapping his arms around her waist, pulling her close to smell the chestnut curls around her head and nuzzling her neck. His inner-voice should have told him to push her away, to protect himself, but his thoughts had been contrary and self-sabotaging all week, and he was done listening to the voice of insecurity. At least for a little while.

In his mind's eye, the back of that dress would slip-open easily, with barely a tug, and the tight fabric would loosen enough for his hands to slide under, cupping her breasts. She would lean back into his chest and...

Those thoughts were poisonous. It was how women like Millie plied their trade.

If he slept with her, it would prove Zelena right, and he still couldn't trust that he was behaving rationally. Of late, his rationale had taken a back seat. That thought bothered him almost as much as seeing Reeve's putting his hands on her had done.

As Gold helped her into the car, she let out a low hiss and gasped in pain. He slid in next to her immediately, asking if she was alright. Belle unbuttoned her coat and explained that her movement had ripped free a piece of tape. He could already see that the dress didn’t fit her petite frame quite so securely without the adhesive in place.

Ah. So there would be no possible course of events that resulted in his hands sliding under the sapphire sequins of that dress and pulling her back into his lap because he gave her a dress that she had to keep on with fucking tape. No woman intent on seducing him on the first date would ever do something so impractical, and all he could think was what a tremendous fool he'd been for letting Greene's envy get to him. Zelena was a problem that needed to be dealt with, but the persistent memory of blue, smiling eyes made it difficult to scheme clearly. He'd find a solution for all of it - another day.


	7. Chapter 7

Gold really didn't know how he made it through their date. If he could call it a date. He could, he knew, but that would mean she’d won their ill-conceived wager. Bugger it, it was a date.

He turned on the jets of his over-sized Jacuzzi to sooth his sore leg, and considered, briefly, the bottle of pain killers he kept on hand for nights like this. He didn't like to take them. They didn't dull his senses terribly, but the part of him that thrived in adversity treated the pain like a personal cilice-cicatrix. You dealt with it - it reminded you of what was at stake - and when it became too much, you bottled it up to use when you needed it.

No, Gold decided; no pain killers tonight. Instead, he took himself in hand and let his mind wander.

Belle was here. Not standing on the curb in front of her decaying apartment complex, but here, surrounded by comfort, with him. He'd found the nerve to invite her in, and she smelled like that familiar combination of old books and vanilla that he liked so much; the musk of yellowed paper and ink kept her from being too sweet. She was smiling at him, something he'd said pleased her.

"Do you mind some company, Rum?" the fantasy-woman purred.

Gold could feel himself getting closer to the edge, and he let his hard member slip from his hand. It was better, so much better, to draw it out. The memory of Belle's soft tresses came back to him, unbidden.

"Mr. Gold, I asked if you minded a little company?"

Not at all, Miss French. Please, call me Rum. Please.

He tried to imagine what she'd look like, without the tape and tacky dress, if she wore something like simple and pale. Something just for him. Would she let a strap slide down her shoulder? Would she let him watch as the silk pooled at her feet? Slowly – painfully, excruciatingly so - he tried to visualize small, pert breasts with pink nipples the exact color of her lips.

No, that wasn't going to do it. He'd never seen her topless, and those could be any woman's breasts, but he didn't want _any_ woman. His fingers rubbed circles over the head of his cock, making it bob in the water. He focused on her legs instead. Legs for miles, made all the more tempting by a short skirt and tall heels. Nothing in a hundred years would make him regret that feature of the blue sequined dress.

Then, she was in the tub. Her thin frame pressed back against him, and he held her like he’d wanted to at the coat check. She could feel his cock pressing into her. She liked it. He let his palm grind the length of him, imagining that it was her squirming around in his lap instead. Her neck would arc back, placing her head and falling curls on his shoulder and their faces check-to-cheek. He could devour her, throat first, with a flurry of sucks, nips and bites, and she might even take her own hands and tug at his hair...

He grasped himself tightly and began to pump. Rumford knew he was splashing, but he didn't care. The world was hot, wet, and tight around him, and the only evidence vanished with the bath water.

God, he was going to make such a fool of himself. Something had to be done. He did not call the next morning.

And rightly so, Belle supposed. She’d never get him to admit they’d actually been on a date, though Belle wasn't convinced that it was a job either, and she hated the ambiguity. She never did anything by half-measures, if she could help it. They ended Friday amicably enough, with him gently easing his combs out of her hair and back into their case. She thought he wanted to kiss her – would not have objected to a chaste peck on the cheek – but instead the driver opened her door and the moment was lost.

Belle wasn't a total neophyte in the department of romance; she'd seen the hunger at war with doubt in him when he rescued her from Keith, and she saw kindness at war with practicality when he said they could leave early. Was he surprised to find her attractive? That other men did? Maybe he was still just trying to prove his point about the difference between social fraternization and dating.

He sent nothing but mixed signals at the diner, and Belle didn't know what to make of it.

It was a _War and Peace_ kind of Monday, she decided. She had several copies of Tolstoy's epic in the annex, printed in the original Russian and first edition copies of the more memorable English translations. Belle dove into her work, cataloging each one for imperfections and carefully judging if the paper had grown too brittle for rigorous cleaning.

As she reached for her cleaning supplies, her breath caught in her chest. There was something waiting on her desk: a turquoise box with a white-silver ribbon. Only one thing came in a box like that.

She looked closer, and saw the note:

_Miss French,_

_Thank you for a lovely evening. I apologize again for the stuffiness of the room. It was a gross miscalculation on my part._

_Tea at 3 – chipped set with Earl Grey, please._

Belle looked at the small Tiffany & Co. box again, terribly tempted to tear it open see what was in it. But there was no way she could accept a gift like this from him, even if it was just a high-handed way of apologizing. It was also a declaration that he felt himself the winner of that stupid bet. Whether he won or not, she wasn't about to let Rumford pay her off for a night that left so many questions burning inside her.

It made sense, now, why he preferred his impersonal methods: instruct Dove to send something suitably expensive with a note that ensured business as usual going forward, and you didn’t have to worry about keeping track of one another between public appearances. Then again, she'd just visited with Ian this morning, when she dropped off Gold's morning tea, and he hadn't mentioned being asked to send her something. In fact, he'd asked after her and made sure that Friday hadn't turned too ugly. (It hadn't.)

Belle just couldn't bring herself to accept a gift of jewelry. Returning it was the only possibility she entertained. The problem was that extravagancies like Tiffany’s had no meaning to Gold: it was a gesture, a small one, his equivalent of a 20% tip. Something that meant quite a lot to her probably barely dented his pocket change, and Belle wasn't sure how willing Gold was to overlook that fact.

Ultimately, Belle tucked the unopened box into her apron pocket, to worry about it later. A small flash of turquoise peaked out of the arrow hole, which brought up an entirely different problem. She needed to do something about Keith.

No longer content to catalog Tolstoy, she turned to one of her illuminated manuscripts instead. The scans and cataloging were almost completed, but she still needed to reproduce the work in gall-ink and vellum. It didn't have to be a perfect match, but the idea was to give anyone visiting the museum library the experience of touching history without actually compromising an irreplaceable and incredibly delicate historical artifact.

The Curator, Dr. Anton, had even suggested that some of the illuminated tomes might go on display in the Great Hall, where some of the more unique curios were kept.

Belle loved books. She loved the careful art of hand-binding them, the simple sensation of gentle pages fluttering, and the joy of losing herself in the writing. Whole worlds lived in libraries, and the familiarity put her at ease. She supposed that artists felt the same way about flow and form as she did about prose and ink. To paint a face, something really human with the depth and power of emotion, it took an unflinching and honest eye; the same was true of writing.

But Belle couldn't prevent her thoughts from straying back to Gold. They were... friendly, sort of. At least they had been amicably chatty a few times, and comfortable in their silences too. She could almost forgive him for snapping at her.

When her phone alarm reminded her that it was 2:40 and time to prepare Mr. Gold's tea, Belle still didn't know what to do about the unopened gift in her pocket. She would see him without opening it, she decided. Thank him, and return it as politely as possible.

Belle smiled as she prepared their tea tray, using the chipped cup as he'd requested. He always liked that one best, like it was some great novelty to him: the man who could afford anything liked a cup that anyone else in his position would have thrown in the trash.

Well, she certainly didn't mind him using it. Belle's family was not wealthy, and they were not wasteful. She wasn't raised to throw a perfectly serviceable cup aside because of what basically amounted to a cosmetic flaw. Of course, she also didn't go around purposefully damaging things. When things and people were not disposable, their owners and confidants tended to be careful.

Well, at least that was how it was supposed to be. But Belle didn't like to focus on darker days. It was just all this pointless worry about Gold dredging up old memories.

As 3 o'clock came, she glided quietly into Gold's office, giving Dove a soft smile as she passed.

Gold was speaking to someone on the phone, but gestured for her to sit down and wait. This was good. On the days when he acknowledged her entrance, it usually meant he intended to speak to her over their break, and for a Monday that was practically unheard of.

She dutifully set up their tea service and jotted down a few notes on a particularly difficult bit of archaic French smut, trying to convey all the sensuality and satire of the original. Her article had been well received, and she was shocked to find that people were interested in reading more of the lurid allegory. After a moment, he wrapped up his call.

"Thank you for waiting, Miss French. I apologize for keeping you," Gold said as soon as the receiver landed in the cradle. He smiled a quirky half-shadow of a smile, and his accent came through thick and clear.

"Oh, don't worry about it. Actually, Mr. Gold, I wanted to talk to you-"

"Please, call me Rumford."

Well that was unexpected. But he was extending her a courtesy, and – months ago, when he was a nameless man sulking in the museum staff lounge – she had offered him the same.

"Rumford, then," she whispered. "But only if you finally agree to call me Belle."

"I'd like that." His eyes took on that same dark hunger that she'd seen at the charity ball, and for the first time she didn't think it made him look angry.

Belle twitched a little, unsure of herself in the wake of this new, more intense Gold. Dammit – he couldn't just make this easy on her, could he?

No, not more intense, she realized with a start. He was always intense. This new expression was simply missing a layer of formality and aloofness on top of it. Mr. Gold, _Rumford_ , took Belle completely by surprise.

"Miss French," he began.

"Belle," she reminded him. If this was how he wanted things to go, then she was going to hold him to it.

"Belle," he replied, smiling a little. "I have a proposition for you."

Belle inclined her head to the side slightly, sending a sleek curl haphazardly out of her messy bun and down to her shoulder. "And what might that be?"

"Come with me this Thursday to a business supper. I have a pressing need for a reliable assistant and many social expectations to fulfill. You and I are... well suited for such outings, I think."

Belle could tell he'd rehearsed what he was going to say.

"And I owe you a night in a less stuffy room. I assure you, if this works out there will be plenty of museum functions, auction houses and charity galas thrown in the mix – your career could only benefit."

"Are you offering me a job?" she blanched. "I would be there as your... assistant?" Belle wasn't sure if she liked where this was going, but it wasn't anywhere she could have anticipated when he left her standing on the curb on Friday.

"I am offering you an opportunity. I think we both know that our little experiment ended in unfamiliar waters, despite all efforts to the contrary. I am willing to admit the business of maintaining social visibility is not entirely impersonal, and is in fact much improved by having a compatible partner rather than a contracted escort for the evening.

"However, I hope you will also allow that these engagements are quite demanding on both parties, and rewarding my guests for their time is mutually beneficial – they could hardly be accused of accepting solely for the pleasure of my company. I find that I have more to gain by bringing a trustworthy ally in the room with me. By bringing _you_. There would still be a significant benefits package, of course."

Belle looked at him sharply, reprimand ready. Then she stopped. From the glimmer of uncertainty in his eyes, he seemed to know he'd said something very wrong.

Belle stared him down in silence as she thought about what he was asking. Rumford blinked first.

"If I go with you to another social engagement," Belle began, conscientiously not calling it a date. "It would be on a case-by-case basis, as your friend, not as a networking opportunity – though I'll admit, I am excited to meet some more of the local docents. I wouldn't be obligated to attend anything I didn't want to. And I'm not accepting any expensive gifts or compensation, including whatever this is."

She placed the unopened Tiffany's box on his desk.

Gold winced. He collected himself quickly and pressed on. "It would be exclusive, dearie. I'll not have my..." Property? Colleague? Dare he say date?

"Friend?" Belle offered, filling the gap his silence had made.

"Friend," Gold agreed. "I'll not have my friend cavorting at parties with other men. What happened with Reeve was not your fault, but I need to know I can trust you not to turn up in the cloak room with someone else. That part is non-negotiable, I'm afraid. I would also insist on paying for any necessary incidentals."

"Believe me, hiding in a dark closet is the last place you're likely to find me," she muttered. "But what if I chose to date someone else?" She had to know if this was about business or something more primal.

"Your personal life is your own. But when we are together in public, you are _with me_." He managed that with only a hint of jealousy, but Belle couldn't decide if it was a pro or con in the grand scheme of things.

Gold could have asked her one million times, and nine hundred ninety nine thousand nine hundred and ninety nine of those times, Belle would have told him to go to hell. But she didn't. There was something there, just under the surface, and it had been weighing her down all day. The man had layers, and she could never resist a good mystery.

Besides, she was never very good at holding a grudge, and he hadn't made any derogatory remarks to her since the Launch Party. She was beginning to remember what had prompted her to reach out to him in the first place. He was… kind, and a little uncertain, beneath that hard veneer of aloofness.

"I don't want any confusion about what I am to you – I don't want any presumptions."

"Naturally," Gold nodded. Belle thought she saw a familiar spark of fury brewing on his face, but he pushed it away.

Honestly, she didn't know what made her even want to consider it. Yet she found herself asking, "And my wardrobe?"

"Entirely at your discretion, and nothing as ill-conceived as that unfortunate sequined number," Gold conceded. "I'll still need Ian to approve the purchases, but you can decide for yourself what you like. The cost will be absorbed by me."

"I don't love it," Bell replied after a moment. "I don't need to accumulate fancy dresses, and I don't want to go with you as an invisible servant delegated to fetching drinks all afternoon. But... if you're serious about needing an ally in the room, then yes. Yes, I will go with you Thursday, and after that we can decide if it's going to work out."

"And in exchange?" Her dark and somber Gold was back in full.

"In exchange? Nothing, I don't want..." Belle began, and then stuttered to a halt. She did want something from him.

"In exchange, you will stop all of your _social fraternization_ talk. You will have to accept me as me – the girl who likes diner burgers. Sometimes I have ink stains. You may not even notice you're doing it, but remarks like that really hurt me. If I'm going with you, you need to respect me, okay? That means not ordering me around, not telling me to sit down and be quiet. You're not going to walk all over me. Can you do that, Rumford?"

"Yes," Gold breathed. He couldn't have looked more pained if she'd slapped him. "That is more than fair."

"Then I just have one more question," she said. "What changed?"

This was it, the moment of truth – literally. If he lied or gave her some flimsy pretense, she was going to change her mind.

"I realized that you have been nothing but candid with me," he told her. "And that I was genuinely sorry to have cared what anyone else might think of you."

"Alright," said Belle, taking a sip of her tea. "I accept your apology, and we will go to your dinner party on Thursday."


	8. Chapter 8

Belle couldn't know what his confession cost him, but she seemed to understand that he couldn't talk about the potential for _feelings_ yet. Apart from not wanting to frighten the woman off before he had a chance to woo her, there was too much ambiguity down that road. For the first time in a decade, he was actually hopeful about his personal life.

It didn't stop his thoughts from circling the drain, though. Rumford Gold had a mountain of regrets in his otherwise successful career, but losing his family was at the peak of it.

He met Millicent Cassidy his first year in the City, while he was working as the head of Nikolai Zozo's American front and laundering money for the _bratva_. She was the first beautiful woman who ever took an interest in him, a poor cripple raised on the streets of Glasgow, and they got married as soon as she missed a period. For five years, Neal and the _bratva_ were his whole world, and Zozo's business kept him and Millie living comfortably.

When the FBI came knocking, Gold struggled to take the business legitimate. He knew the lad resented him for working so much, but Gold hoped he'd understand in time that it was all for Neal's legacy. There were never any convictions in the case, but times got too lean for Millie's tastes. He'd been a mean bastard, he knew that, and Millie used the criminal allegations in his background to take his son away when she divorced him. He was lucky not to be deported.

Neal wasn't even allowed to see him on the weekends when he was a lad, and as an adult he had nothing to say to his old man. The father he remembered was a temperamental crime lord who shouted at his mother and sent thugs to beat up Millie's boyfriends.

She came back to him, once, when his boy was 14. Gold had just earned his first _Forbes_ cover, and she was keen to rekindle their old flame. Rumford (damned to repeat the same mistakes for all eternity) fell for it hook, line, and sinker. The next morning, she'd snuck out with a roll of cash and took his son half way around the world on her boyfriend's yacht.

He sent his lawyers after them, but they never had any luck. She had full custody – she was allowed to take him out of the country, and they couldn't prosecute theft charges in some of the more remote waters. They’d attempted to reconnect when the lad was entering university, but calling those scant few months (the best months of his life, really) a disaster would have been the understatement of the 20th Century.

Gold wasn't proud of the monster he'd been. He hadn’t remembered how to be a father any more.

Neal was 28 now, and he never called. He had a trust fund he rarely touched, a step-father who monopolized his mother somewhere off the coast of Bali, and a mother whose alimony payments were never high enough. Last Gold heard, he'd been living in a one-room studio apartment trading penny-stocks for a living.

No amount of apologizing had ever been enough for his son; not to make up for the missed birthdays when he was young, the harshness toward his mother in his pre-teens, and not for the sore disappointment of teenagers around the world.

He didn't have the strength to explain the misery of it all to Belle, but he knew that he couldn't expect her to be the same as Millie. It was so easy to see a beautiful woman with dark hair, blue eyes, and remember the worst of times. Zelena's prickliness had not helped.

He wasn't blind – he knew Greene was attracted to him (or to his power, at least) and he knew that she was aware of his past. She'd be a fool not to have him investigated, and her skills in the merger negotiations proved that was not the case. Typically, he found his acquisitions below his notice, but maybe it was time that he turned that game back around on her.

Gold also knew a thing or two about envy, and preying on Zelena's vanity made it almost too easy to retaliate. He sent an anonymous (but lavish) bouquet to her secretary, with a note congratulating her on a job well done. Then he watched Zelena seethe through the plate-glass window of her office, incapable of coming in second to someone else. Simple pleasures. He didn't need to dismantle her; she'd take herself down a few pegs all on her own.

Belle wasn't like that at all. She always surprised him with her sunny smiles and quiet charm. She was beautiful. Really, truly beautiful, in a way he thought women stopped being after the 1980s.

He _wanted_ her. Wanted her smiling, laughing, and happy; wanted her with him at odd hours of the night; wanted her tumbling into his arms again; wanted her stripped, flushed and panting, laid out on silky sheets and begging for release.

And, more in keeping with his plans to punish Greene for meddling with him, he wanted to keep Belle safe, protected from the politics and power-plays that haunted his life. Those were the same cheap parlor tricks that drove his son away.

He had no intention of keeping his attraction to Annabelle French a secret, but he owed her a first date - a better one – with no expectation of more to come. The Mayor's Ball had been a stunning failure, one from which he learned a hard lesson. She needed to see that he could be a gentleman, that he could respect her (and God, how he'd loathed himself when she'd made that her demand of him; he never should have given her cause to doubt him). Belle French deserved the best.

For now, it was enough that she agreed to spend time with him at a business supper. She wouldn't take his money, had made no attempts to seduce him, and insisted on being his _friend_. Thursday night would be a test run to see if this new _friendship_ held water.

He thought Thursday would be the real challenge, but on Tuesday afternoon Gold encountered an unexpected obstacle.

"I don't understand what the problem is," groaned Rumford. "We agreed that I would be responsible for the incidentals, and the dress code for this evening is formal."

"I just don't see why you need to dress me in clothes that cost more than I make in a month. What's wrong with _Macy's_?"

" _Saks_ has a better selection," he insisted.

"It just seems like a waste of money," Belle replied, setting her cup on the saucer. She'd served him blackberry-infused Pekoe today.

"Money is not something I particularly wanted to discuss today," Rum tried again.

"I know," Belle demurred. "I know it's not something that you're supposed to discuss in polite company, and I know that you can afford to be generous, I just… what if they don't let me in the door? It's _Saks_ , and I'm wearing clothes from the consignment shop with no time to go home and change."

"Miss French, have you never been to _Saks_ before?"

She blushed.

"I promise you, they don't lock the door. Besides, what you're wearing is hardly as scandalous as Julia Roberts' ensemble," he quipped.

"You've seen _Pretty Woman_?" she giggled.

"Yes, of course," Rum hedged. "How would you feel if I accompanied you this evening? Just to ease the transition?" The last thing he wanted was for her to compare herself to a well-paid prostitute.

"Would you?" She perked up. "I don't want to drag you away from your office, if you have work to do."

"I wouldn't have offered if I wasn’t available," he promised. "My car can pick us up in front of the building at six. It shouldn't take too long to make our way up town in traffic. Do you mind joining me for a bite to eat after?"

“That’d be nice, actually,” Belle said. She visibly relaxed. “Sort of like an ice-breaker before the main event.”

“You’ll be wonderful, Belle,” Rumford assured her. “If I ever let you believe otherwise, I apologize.”

“Apology accepted.”

Rum had truly set her mind at ease, at least until they got to the actual shopping. Now the only question Belle had was what to choose.

She settled on a flirty, lacey cocktail dress in a reserved shade of sapphire, and paired it with a cranberry belt and matching peep-toes. The shoes had been his sole demand of the evening: she thought the plain, black heels he purchase for the Mayoral Ball would do just fine, but Gold insisted on having as few reminders of that night as possible. Besides, he owned a simple, garnet bangle from the late 1800s that would set off the shoes and her slender ankles perfectly.

For dinner, he wanted to lure her off to Eleven Maddison, where they always made it a priority to seat him with or without a reservation, but having her own way over dinner had been Belle's compromise. Rumford found himself pleasantly surprised by her choice. She had the driver drop them off outside a small pub on the way to her apartment, and even picked up the tab (which irked him). Their food was delicious, though the ambiance would not have suggested it, and she looked very much at ease sipping her beer.

"Leroy, who owns this place, lives in the apartment above me," she explained. "He comes down to fix the plumbing, sometimes, if I can't get ahold of the landlord. Anyway, when he told me about his bar, I had to check it out. They do a fantastic steak."

Gold started to offer her a better space in his building, but managed not to sound like a total fool by shoveling in another bite. She was right, it was good; far better than a dive-bar called _Grumpy's_ had any right to be.

Thursday 's dinner party went smoothly, though Gold missed the intimacy and easy conversation of their simple pub fare. Belle looked every inch a wonder, and his colleagues in the room took note.

Some of them obviously recognized her from the Mayor's fundraiser, but all knew better than to comment on it. For a man like Gold, time was money, and any woman who held his attention for two events in a row was obviously not the sort of person to be taken lightly. Belle's presence told the old vultures all they needed to know: she had gained a significant amount of Gold's time, which made her valuable.

He wanted to spend more time with Belle, but there was always another deal to make, another palm to grease. The work, on paper, of buying and selling other people's companies actually took very little of his time from day-to-day. He had sound business strategies, good instincts, and competent people crunching the numbers for him. It wasn't that he trusted his underlings, but if Jefferson couldn't find something objectionable about them, then they were probably clean. Anyone who thought they could undermine him and disappear again had clearly never met his Acquisitions Department, but internal reviews rarely got ugly these days.

In reality, the bulk of his role – now – came in social venues: teleconferences, dinner parties, political campaigns. His name meant something. People wanted to be seen with him, to see him living a certain life-style, and to know that the Gold name was still worth its weight. His relationships paved the way to new and better markets, ripe for development. A stock broker or financier could sell your soul three different ways, but Gold was the man you had forfeit it to in the first place.

It wasn't as enjoyable as a quiet night with Belle, but he still had to circulate.

Belle chatted politely with anyone who approached her, and somehow charmed her way into a few introductions that Gold would have been hard-pressed to make on his own. The fading legacies of Old Guard New York had little patience for obscenely wealthy climbers like Gold, but they utterly adored Belle. Well why shouldn't they? She was witty, polite, and interesting, and suddenly his decades-long diet of socialites and debutantes seemed unbearably empty.

He tried to forget that there was ever a time when he found her company beneath him, and hoped she would too.

Everything was going fine until a tipsy Carlotta de Ville ran head-long into Belle and only barely missed dousing her in gin. Carlotta’s husband was being heavily investigated by the CFPB, he knew, but the woman had the gall to show herself tonight, and Gold had to respect her mettle. It was also a bit hard to be mad at the old lush when Belle was fitted so comfortably against his chest, wrapped in his arms. Whatever pain his leg felt in the aftermath, it was nothing compared to that warmth.

“Thank you,” Belle managed, righting herself as casually as she could. He hoped his touch hadn’t lingered too long; she was still wary of him, as she should be (he’d gone out of his way to ensure it). But Gold was patient. He could prove himself.

Mallory had swooped in to corral her friend and pat her trademark furs dry with a napkin, drawing the attention of the room away from the two of them.

“No matter,” Gold replied. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, I’m fine. I hope I didn’t embarrass you, I—“

“No, darling, of course not,” Gold promised. “Carlotta’s a mess, but that’s her problem.”

“She’s really glaring at me though. Do you think I should go over and apologize?”

“No, no. She’ll get used to it.”

“Or sober up,” Belle laughed. Then she looked ashamed. “That wasn’t very nice of me.”

“Nice is over-rated,” Gold replied. “Come along, I want you to meet somebody…” And so, the evening went on.

"Are you ready to go?" Rum asked, brushing his arm against hers. These things never lasted too long – they weren't important enough to be scheduled on a Friday or Saturday, and almost everyone in the room was clearly done with the wheeling-and-dealing.

"Yes, I think I've heard as much about the decline of railroads as I can take," she teased.

They made their goodbyes, and Gold sent his driver a text to meet them on the curb.

"Belle, there was something I wanted to talk to you about," he said, accent thick even to his own ears. "I… do not think that our current arrangement is going to work."

"Really?" Belle asked, struggling to moderate the emotions on her face. "I suppose, if you'd rather not—"

"No, that's not what I mean," Gold groaned, running his fingers through his hair. "I'm trying to release you."

"Isn't that what you just said?"

Bloody hell, why couldn't he remember anything he'd planned for this moment? He gave it another try. "I mean I don't ever expect you to be my companion again. No, that's not… Of course, I'd like to take you out. You're an excellent companion, and I enjoy our time together. But I have no intentions of doing so as your _friend_.

"When I ask you out again – and I will ask – I want it to be perfectly clear that I'm not asking for _business_. I don't expect that you'll want to, considering the way I've behaved in the past, but I needed to tell you. I'm sorry. I'm not an easy man to be with, in most respects, but I find that I'd like to try. If you'll have me?"

Bell, wide-eyed, opened her mouth.

"You don't have to answer now," he rushed, helping her into the car before the driver could out-maneuver him. He circled the boot and sat down on the seat opposite her. "But if you're interested, if you think you could ever be with someone like me, then I'd like to escort you to the ballet tomorrow evening."

Belle pressed her index finger to his lips, and Rumford struggled not to tremble.

"I think I'd like that," she whispered, sliding her hand down her calf and unclasping the garnet anklet adorning her shapely leg. She pressed the warm circle to into his hand.

"Keep it," he offered. It was nothing to him - a trinket.

Belle just shook her head, tucked the bangle in his breast pocket, and rested her head against his shoulder.

"So are you going to kiss me goodnight?" she asked when the car pulled up outside her apartment.

"That depends," Gold hedged. "Does that mean you'll accept if I ask you out again?"

"It certainly wouldn't hurt," she teased, turning her face up to his. She hadn't meant to like him, not even to speak civilly to him, but there was something about Rumford Gold that she just couldn't ignore. A kiss sounded great.

For one stunningly silent moment, she thought he wouldn't do it. Or that the driver would pull open the door and interrupt them. Instead, his hand cupped her cheek and soft lips brushed against hers.

"Let me walk you to the door," Rumford whispered. He wrapped his hand around her waist and breathed him in. He smelled of spices, soap, and the subtlest hint of leather.

Their second kiss grew urgent, hot, and hungry. Gold's hands brushed her sides, barely daring the edge of her breasts, and his teeth scraped along her bottom lip. Belle let her fingers run through his slightly shaggy, salt-and-pepper hair, giving him a tug to take control of the kiss. Their breathing grew short and heavy, condensing in the chill night air.

"Ballet tomorrow?" Gold asked, nuzzling at her neck. "It's the premiere of _Sleeping Beauty_."

"Yeah, okay," Belle panted when they finally broke apart.


	9. Chapter 9

The Lincoln Center featured prominently in some of Belle's fondest memories, but she'd never been able to afford orchestra seats inside the red and gold splendor of the Koch Theatre before. Thousands of shimmering lights and lattice-cut diamonds reflected the reflected the disco-style audacity of the auditorium's trademark chandelier, and she felt as though she'd accidentally stumbled into a fairy tale (which wasn't too far from the mark, considering that the evening's performance would be _The_ _Sleeping Beauty_ ).

Somehow you missed the full wonder of the space when you had to crowd into sixth-ring, obstructed seats and strain to hear the symphony.

Belle adored the performing arts, though she knew shamefully little about the nuances of ballet in particular. Still, some of it was obvious: the sheer physical strength it took to appear both effortless and precise completely humbled her. But what she really loved about the theatre (any kind of theatre) was the unique approach story-telling. Dance and music breathed new life into old tales, both reinventing and sublimating them at once, in a way that only a live performance could.

Tonight, Sleeping Beauty was waking for the first and last time, because it would never be exactly like this again. And she got to experience that moment of frantic, wild, perfectly choreographed energy with _him_. She, more than anyone, had been pleasantly surprised to find that her tolerance for the cantankerous Mr. Gold had blossomed into a warm and burgeoning like, and now Belle couldn't imagine a time when she hadn't harbored a simmering _tendre_ for the man.

And it didn't hurt that Rumford looked at her with the sort of intensity she had previously reserved for Ewan McGregor films. She'd never considered herself with an older (but not old, just older than her) gentleman, but there was something to be said for the barest hint of gray seeping into his temples, offset by long, utterly touchable hair.

Belle snuck a glance toward her date out the corner of her eye, not really daring to rip her eyes fully from the stage. He looked… well, he looked tired. It bothered her, ever so slightly, that Rum did not look like he was enjoying himself. He'd been pleasant all through dinner, but now they were in a place where talking wasn't even an option, and he wasn't leaning forward in his seat or swaying to the music at all. If anything, he looked somewhat bored.

She just needed him to feel something, anything, in appreciation of the dancers and musicians performing for them. Then she felt guilty for wanting him to have the same gut-reaction she did, and her thoughts dissolved into an internal debate on the philosophy of art appreciation. She needed to snap out of it; a first date was really no place for an existential debate about creation and vitality.

Then again, what else were they going to talk about during the intermission? Not tea or business contacts again, she hoped.

"So, what do you think?" she asked him as soon as the lights came up at the end of the first act.

"I think their prima ballerina's putting on weight again," he quipped.

She gently slapped the side of his arm. "Be nice," Belle laughed. "I meant… doesn't the performance evoke anything in you?"

Gold shrugged. "The dancers' figures are pleasing, the music is tolerable, and it's opening night," he said, as though that answered anything. Then he took her hand gently in his. "The company, however, is exceptional, and on that account I am feeling quite pleased."

He escorted her toward the lobby, and then guided her to an ornate door with a rather large man in a tuxedo standing guard. Gold nodded and the man waved them into a private lounge far less crowded than the main atrium. Belle recognized a number of faces from their previous nights out, and surmised that it was a special reception for the ballet's major sponsors.

Gold eased up to the bar and secured a glass of wine for each of them.

"If you don't like ballet, then why did you want to come?" Belle asked, sipping her chardonnay. First the unimpressed air of disdain toward the performers, and now they were right back in the thick of social high-rollers that he made it his (and her) job to impress. She felt like she should drop it, given her surroundings, but Bell just couldn't let this one go.

"Everyone's here tonight; look, that's the Mayor's entourage." He pointed to the back of Regina Mills' head, flanked by several men and women she vaguely recognized as Important. "I thought you would like it."

"I do like the ballet," she continued, allowing herself to be led toward a smaller enclave with a few unoccupied settees. "Thank you for bringing me. I'm just worried that you're not having a good time. You looked bored."

Gold didn't react to that, least of all to defend himself. What could he say? _Sorry, Miss French, straight men just don't like ballet._ That sounded offensive and trite even to him. Evenings like this were the bane of his existence: he attended because it was what people did, and occasionally dated from the _corps du ballet_ as was expected of a man in his position.

"I didn't mean… _I'm_ not bored," she clarified, words rushing out. "I think it was a very romantic gesture to bring me to the ballet, even though you don't really seem to enjoy it. I just thought that, maybe, this was sort of… another business thing?"

That stung, but only because she was partially right.

He wasn't here to network or talk-up the latest investment fads, but he did choose it because it was suitably impressive and a good place to show off his date. It was simply the sort of thing wealthy, educated people liked; for a boy who spent his formative years hustling the Glasgow docks and picking through garbage, attending events like this was just another way to prove to New York's old money that he belonged in their ranks.

Personally, he'd have been happier spending another night at _Grumpy's_.

Belle was still talking: "But that's not bad! If we're going to do this, I'd like to get to know you – the real you – not just your public persona. But I like him too. And I'm grateful for the opportunity to see all this, it's unbelievably beautiful. I really do appreciate you bringing me, it's only… maybe we can do something that you enjoy next time?"

At that comment, Rum really did wince. He tried not to react to Belle's nervousness or disappointment (but then again, who hadn't been disappointed by him?), but he couldn't ignore her gratitude. He didn't want her to be _grateful_ to him, he wanted her to… to…

He latched on to something more concrete instead.

"So there'll be another date, aye?" he teased, leaning forward and cupping her cheek. He wanted to sound suave and confident, but he couldn't quite shape his words from a question to a statement.

Belle flushed a lovely shade of pink, but she nodded yes and he relaxed a little. He could still turn this around; he was just a bit rusty at romance.

"I'm not totally disinterested in the arts," he whispered, nibbling at her ear. "I enjoy plays, especially Shakespeare, and I quite like reading as you know. Watching ballet's just not much of an inspiration to me. If I want to appreciate motion and form, I prefer to seek inspiration that's a little more sensual."

He kissed her, conveying with every nip and lick the sort of feelings that Miss French had _inspired_ in him. He hadn't known romance could be new and fresh for him again, but his heart was racing and he could feel Belle's chest heaving against his, and it took every ounce of self-restraint not to reach up and cup her breasts through her dress.

Too many eyes in the room, he reminded himself. Damn.

"I think we've got about fifteen minutes before they start again," he panted. Just enough time to find a private corner where he could risk running his lips all over her jaw and neck.

"I should use the restroom," she said instead.

Her skin glowed and the red, moist swelling of her lips was simply too much for him. A trip to the restroom wasn't what he'd had in mind, but needs must.

"There will probably be a line. Shall I meet you back at our seats?" asked Belle.

Gold shook his head and tried to hide his disappointment. There was a toilet just off the side of their little reception hall, and she'd easily be back in under five minutes. Belle pecked his cheek and darted off in the direction he'd pointed.

Rum took advantage of the break to grab another drink; he'd wanted to impress Belle with the ballet, so she'd understand all the advantages he could offer her, but it would all be for naught if he couldn't show her that she was special to him. They'd been over this once already: he wasn't looking for an escort or a friend. Stupid. Should have done something less constrained, like a gallery opening or night sailing the harbor. Some place with dark nooks and a surplus of champagne.

Gold managed a second glass of wine while he waited, thankful that they'd expanded their bar to include some decent vintages this season, and made small-talk with a man whose shipping company was at the top of a very short list of pending buy-outs for the next quarter. It was too easy to fall back into business when she wasn't with him.

They called him the Beast for a reason, but along with the fierce reputation he'd also earned a reputation for keeping his word. When companies failed to deliver on their promises and endangered jobs, Gold could swoop in and make them profitable (objectively speaking) for the leftover investors and quite often provide reasonable severance packages for the soon to be out-of-work employees.

There were no cuts in management salaries and overhead that he wouldn't make to bank his own share of the profits, and while it had not endeared him to the sorts of people most likely to be impacted by those cuts, no one who'd previously made upwards of $600,000 a year had any excuse for falling flat on their face. There was, after all, such a thing as _savings_.

When the lights started flashing, Belle still hadn't returned, but it was so very easy to under-estimate the amount of time a woman would wait in line to powder her nose. Gold limped back to his seat, but doubt began to gnaw at him when she wasn't there, either.

He snuck a glimpse at his phone: there were messages, of course, but no missed calls or texts from Belle.

The lights dimmed, the curtain rose, and Gold curled his fists. He would not be seen checking his phone all night like some desperate bloody child in the middle of the New York City Ballet. He'd believed her when she said she wasn't bored with him, that she was having a good time, but that was just a kind lie – all the easier to trust because he wanted to believe.

The signs were all there, really: she couldn't have been in a bigger hurry to get away after making her little speech at him. He wasn't enough for her.

By the time Aurora and her Prince began their big number, he'd stewed in his own poisons for long enough not to care what anyone else thought. He rose from his seat and made for the exit.

"Sir, sir," one of the ushers whispered. "Sir, there is no re-admittance during the performance."

Gold ignored him and pushed through, sadly disappointed when it didn't slam behind him.

He glared at the uniformed gentleman standing guiltily in the middle of the atrium, ready to pounce on him for disrupting the performance.

Gold just shook his head at the usher and stalked toward the coat room. "We're done here."

Belle was nowhere in sight – she must have taken a cab home or perhaps she met someone else? That thought made his gut clench.

He would have taken care of getting her home again; despite his reputation, he was at least that much of a gentleman. Gold fished his phone out of his pocket and powered it back on. If she wanted to leave, he wasn't going to stop her, though he'd be damned if he didn't find out who it was she'd thrown him over for. A call to Jefferson should sort everything out. And where the hell was his driver?!

It was stunningly unsatisfying to be left standing on the curb, a grown man waiting for someone to come and get him. Rather than wait, he hailed a cab. His driver would figure it out when nobody met him; he wasn't a totally unintelligent man.

To take his mind off the embarrassment, he listened to his voice mails. Predictably, there were about ten of them: Business, business, desperate beggars hoping to pass off their poor investments as an opportunity for him to come in and mitigate their losses, Zelena Greene complaining about a smell in her office, business… he was almost home, in a cab that stank of pinesap and needed new shocks, when Belle's voice in his inbox managed to surprise him.

In the fog of routine and denial, he almost managed to forget the pain in his chest.

"Rum, it's Belle. You're never going to believe this – nobody else does. The Mayor, the actual _Mayor_ of New York City, told one of the ushers that she caught me spying on her in the toilet! The Theatre Manager took me to his office, and they took my phone for evidence, which I'm pretty sure is illegal, and no one would go and get you to bring me my ticket stub…" She was crying in earnest now.

"And I'm sorry that I'm not taking this well, but it took me ages just to get the police to let me make my one phone call. It's occurring to me that I maybe should have called a lawyer instead, but I guess it's too late. I'm sorry, this is really not a great first date, huh?" He heard the sound of her sniffle.

"I'm so, so sorry, but the show should be letting out in about half an hour, and I really don't want to spend the night here… My time's almost up. I really think I can avoid having them press charges if you show the arresting officer my ticket stub. He should already have had time to see that there's nothing bad on my phone. Please? It's kind of scary down here… Okay, I've got to—" Her call cut off abruptly.

"Driver," said Rumford in a voice that betrayed nothing of his indignation and rage. "I've changed my mind, we're heading back to the Upper West Side."

"Hey, man, you got it!" grinned the cabbie. "It'll probably take twenty minutes or so on the meter, though, traffic's tight in that part of town."

"That's fine," Gold replied, dialing Jefferson. "Keep the meter running. I'll tip you very well if you get me there in ten minutes instead of twenty."

The driver grinned and replied, but Jefferson's phone was already ringing.

"You've got Madden," his Head of Acquisitions answered.

"Jefferson, it's Gold. I need you to meet me down at the 20th Precinct. Bring cash and a copy of your burn file on Ms. Mills. No, not the mother. Yes, the Mayor, you half-wit. Because I am going to make her understand every possible meaning of the word _consequence_ s."


	10. Chapter 10

The holding cell was dank and crowded, with open bars facing a desk staffed by a consistent rotation of officers processing drunk and disorderlies, prostitutes, and a bevy of other petty crimes undertaken by the denizens of Midtown. Belle hadn’t minded that, but after her phone call they’d taken her from holding and a pair of detectives had cornered her in a tight, airless room for interrogation. She hated closed spaces, but even with their vicious insinuations it hadn’t been unbearable. Then the detectives left – her punishment, she presumed, for insisting on her right to a lawyer, was prolonged isolation.

They’d handcuffed her wrists to a D-ring in the center of the table, dimming the lights as they went. She felt utterly forgotten (though probably someone was monitoring her, waiting for her to crack). It wouldn’t be long. Belle could still recall the stink of sweat and piss from her last dungeon, and it was all coming back in waves. She’d drown in it. Would Gold come?

When they’d ushered her into the theatre security offices, she’d almost thought it was somebody’s idea of a joke. Spying in the Ladies’ Room? She was vaguely aware that hidden cameras titillated a certain sexual palate, but it had never been relevant to her. She certainly hadn’t been snapping candid photos of Mayor Mills squatting over a toilet. But the confidence of knowing her own innocence faded when they refused to readmit her to the ballet, and Belle sincerely hoped that she hadn’t wasted her phone call. It had been at least three hours. Perhaps he was cross that she’d embarrassed him.

The walls were pressing in on her, and Belle could feel her chest heaving.

She thought about Sleeping Beauty, whose awakening she’d missed. She thought about work, and about the visceral debauchery of some nameless Frenchman, blissfully unaware of the revolution brewing in the streets. Stories helped – they always had. She’d conquered her claustrophobia by reading, content in the knowledge that she could always leave the room physically or mentally, but being physically restrained? Being kept against her will in an austere room with nothing for company? She couldn’t escape, couldn’t even try. That truly would be a crime, so the best she could do was to regulate her breathing and tell herself that all this was temporary.

Remembering her father, his madness, would accomplish nothing. She’d forgiven him. He was sick, he thought he was protecting her. Entirely different circumstances from being held for questioning in what would certainly turn out to be a misunderstanding.

A slice of light fell across her face.

“Miss French?” asked an unfamiliar voice.

“Y-yes,” she managed.

A man in a crisp uniform entered the room. He wore his hair cropped to a conservative, curly shag, with a short-shorn beard on his face.

“I’m Officer Humbert, and I’m here to escort you to the Night Court.”

“What? My lawyer’s not even here yet – there’s absolutely no evidence against me! You can’t just—“

“Miss, I am sorry. Truly, I am,” he said, uncuffing her hands and guiding her to her feet, only to draw her arms behind her back and close the cuffs again, “But the Mayor insists. You’ll have a public defender to help you answer his questions.”

“This can’t be legal…” Belle trembled, but walked without putting up a fight.

“It’s just the arraignment,” he told her. “The Judge will decide if we’ve got enough to charge you, and he’ll set bail if you’re being detained. If we don’t do things quickly around here, we’d have a full house by sunrise. I’m sure you understand.”

She didn’t, not really, but at least they were out of that miserable, dark room and she could think straight again. The court offices were a short ride in a crowded van, crammed full of women with varying degrees of fear in their eyes. One didn’t even look sober enough to see straight.

Officer Humbert, and a handful of men like him, herded them all into a waiting area and started taking them out one by one. Belle went first, the brilliant fluorescents blinding after so many hours spent in the dark. It must have been after midnight by now. She blinked and winced, and finally spotted a familiar face.

“Rum!” Belle called, comforted by the sight of Mr. Gold and the pack of dark-suited men around him.

He acknowledged her with a sharp nod, and two of the men peeled off to join her just as a loud crack echoed through the room.

“Order in the court,” the Judge grumbled. He was an older man, with a hooked nose and greying hair, and he looked utterly bored. Then his eyes fell on Belle.

“Ah, it seems we have another overly ambitious photojournalist in our midst,” he observed. The gavel slammed down again, silencing the murmur which broke out at his words. A bailiff escorted her and the men she assumed were her lawyers to their positions at the front. “I’ve been briefed on you quite extensively Miss French, and can’t say that I’m impressed.”

Neither of her defenders made any objection to that revelation, and Belle shuddered. It sounded like the Judge had already decided. Surely there was something objectionable about that? Was she permitted to object on her own behalf? It was all happening too fast.

Then the prosecution began their case. To Belle’s ears, the evidence sounded flimsy. They had witness testimonies placing Belle in the bathroom at the same time as the Mayor; the Box Office confirmed that she’d never purchased a ticket for the night of the performance and was unable to produce a stub when asked; and her phone had been cunningly disposed of (Belle’s insistence that it had, in fact, been confiscated fell on deaf ears). Then there was the Mayor’s sworn affidavit, which a court clerk read.

Well why didn’t her lawyers call up Mr. Gold, then? He’d tell them the truth, and… It occurred to Belle that, perhaps, Gold had provided a legal advisor for her specifically so that his name would not be dragged into the press. She felt more than a little bereft.

“I don’t believe there is any question here as to motive or means,” he drawled, shifting lazily through a sheaf of documents. “You are being charged, Miss French, with Invasion of Privacy as a misdemeanor. Be thankful, this could have been a felony. Do you understand?”

Belle nodded and tried not to let tears spill down over her cheeks. Her lawyers looked nervous, and Belle felt for them. She wouldn’t want to deal with Gold after a performance like this, either, even if it did feel like a Kangaroo Court to her.

“As to the matter of prison… it has been pointed out that you are a woman with access to considerable means.”

She could have sworn he smirked. What means was she meant to have? Belle scrimped and saved just to afford her rent-controlled apartment in the Bronx. Did he mean Gold? But what did that have to do with her!?

“Therefore, I have concluded that any bail set proportional to the crime would be paid at very little consequence to yourself, and were you to ignore your summons and abscond from the city, there is very little this Court could do to prevent you living out your days in the Hamptons. That leaves me in a rather delicate position – I cannot allow you to circulate the photos you took tonight—“

“Objection!” the lawyer to her left trumpeted, for the first time that night.

“ _Allegedly_ took,” the Judge conceded. “It is therefore the opinion of this court that the most correct form of action will be to place you under house arrest, pending your trial. Bailiff?”

“What? No! That’s not- Sir, I’m not rich! I’ve no family here! How am I supposed to –“

But the bailiff started leading her out of the room before she could finish. It didn’t stop her from trying to get a reaction – any reaction – from the pair of mostly mute, nervy lawyers approaching the bench. “Please listen! I can’t be under house arrest. Isn’t there some law about placing an undue burden? I’ve got to work, you know!”

“Order!” the grey-haired man bellowed, slamming his gavel again. “Bailiff, see that Miss French is secured. Counsel, approach – this court will now recess for fifteen minutes while we discuss the particulars of this sentence.”

The Judge’s cold smirk was the last thing she saw before the holding-cell door shut in her face.

“Well, gentlemen,” purred Frollo, after the principle players excused themselves to his chambers, “I trust that bit of pageantry was satisfactory to all involved?”

“Yes,” Gold hissed, pushing aside the two patsies he’d called upon to usurp Belle’s public defenders. He sent them from the room with a nod, and he was once more alone with the Judge. “You’ve managed to squirm your way back into neutral ground with me, though I’d advise that the next time Ms. Mills rings you up for a personal favor, you tell her you’re indisposed. Regina is going to be in a world of regret very soon. In fact, tell Albert Spencer I said that when you see him.”

“Frankly, I’m shocked, Gold. Bullying the Mayor, compromising a Judge, and pressuring District Attorney all in one night? I thought you’d given that stuff up after Nikolai. I hope she’s worth it.”

“You let me worry about that, dearie,” Gold sneered at the disgusting man. Frollo’s sins were many, and he made Gold’s skin crawl.

“Really Gold, there’s no need for theatrics. It was a difficult situation, but I believe we are both profiting by the evening. You seemed quite keen on the deal, when I proposed it. Besides, not all of us have the luxury of openly defying the Mayor’s office.”

Rum’s jaw clenched. Frollo was securely in Regina’s pocket – and his pocket, by extension. It would have suited Gold just as well to let the notorious deviant burn alongside his mistress come morning, but that was before Claude made him a rather more interesting offer. As it was, Frollo could say that he’d done as Regina instructed and had the girl charged, though they both knew the D.A. would decline to proceed and it would all come to naught in a fortnight. Even if Albert’s office wasn’t well within Gold’s realm of influence, the fact of Belle’s innocence remained entirely uncontested (at least for Gold). No, this wasn’t about justice; it was another of Regina’s petty power-plays.

Only this time, she’d miscalculated. Jefferson had enough evidence to bury the woman three times over, and was even now ensuring that Regina would have a morning every bit as interesting as his evening had been. He wouldn’t break her – she would be damned expensive to replace – but Gold had every intention of tightening the reigns.

“So, shall we have the papers drawn up, or would you prefer to stand there glaring daggers at me all evening?”

Gold eased himself into the chair opposite Frollo. “Let’s sign, dearie…”

Twenty minutes later, a tallish officer escorted him to where they were keeping Belle. She looked tired, shaken, and entirely too small. Rumford couldn’t bring himself to look her in the eye.

“Get those _things_ off her!” he roared at the guard, instead, and Belle was immediately released from her cuffs.

“Rum, I… I didn’t…” Her lips pressed together, and he could see what it cost her to stay strong.

His heart was racing as he forced himself to move slowly, wrapping his arms around her. “Shh, I know sweetheart. I know.”

“It was so dark,” she shivered. “And I was alone in that room again…”

“It’ll be alright,” he comforted. If one of the Policemen had left a single bruise on her, there wouldn’t be a God who could save him. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you now.”

“I’ll lose my job,” she whispered into his chest.

Gold’s lips pressed together and quirked into a smile despite himself. “You won’t, I promise. I’ve arranged everything. They’re going to fit you with an ankle monitor tonight, but the range should permit you free movement around your offices and mine.”

Belle pushed back, establishing her own space again. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Let me do this for you.”

“No,” she insisted, a bit of the color coming back to her cheeks. “Tell me what you’re talking about. You’ve done something, haven’t you? Oh God, Rum, what have you done?”

He put up his hands in a show of contrition. “It’s your choice, Belle. I’d never take that from you. But I’ve arranged… that is, I can…”

“What are you saying?”

“It’s just for a few weeks,” he smiled weakly. “You’ll stay with me, until all this blows over. The D.A. will never prosecute, I can promise you that, and in a few weeks you’ll be back at home. This seemed the best way for you to carry on with your life. You’ll be safe.”

“I don’t need to be protected,” Belle bristled.

“Belle, you’ve been set up!” Gold snapped. “This is about me, about using you to get to me, can’t you see that? It’s an annoyance. An inconvenience. The kind of cruel game Ms. Mills likes to play, with no regards for those she tramples along the way. What was I supposed to do, let them lock you away in the Bronx, in an apartment you couldn’t afford to keep?”

“You could have told them I came with you! That I didn't sneak in like some sort of criminal, to stalk people into the bathrooms!  When you said you'd help, I thought you'd use your influence with the Trustees to grant me permission to temporarily work from home, not move me in after our first date!” she snapped right back at him. 

“I'm sorry, Belle, I... I'm sorry.  I couldn't," he cowed.  "You’d have your own suite of rooms, and full run of the building.  I wouldn’t impose. I'll spend the whole time at my townhouse, if you like, and leave you alone. The apartments in the office are so convenient for you to use... And you may not like it, but this happened to you because of your association with me.  I need to make this right for you, but I will call Dr. Anton and inform him that you’ll be taking an extended absence, with pay, if that’s what you’d prefer.”

“I’d prefer to make my own choices. To not have you be so high-handed and self-centered about this when what I really need is… I was so _frightened_ tonight, Rum.”  She wrapped her lithe arms around him, and Rumford felt as though his guilt would swallow him.

“Please let me do this for you, Belle. _Please,_ ” he begged.

She deflated, and went quiet. “Alright,” Belle answered, after a while. “I’ll go with you.”


	11. Chapter 11

Gold’s private apartments sprawled out in front of her, occupying the top two floors on the southwest corner his building, with his executive offices one level lower. A small elevator in a partially-hidden antechamber behind Dove’s desk went directly between the two spaces, provided you had a key-card and passcode. For all that it was beautiful, it hardly looked lived-in. What would his townhouse be like? Probably no different.   So far, his office was the most homely space she’d seen him occupy.

“This will give you the same clearance as my household staff,” Rum told her, passing her a thin piece of white plastic. “It’s temporary – they have to be reissued every week. But I’m having a personal card and code created for you, one that you can keep. It should be done on Monday.”

“Isn’t this all a little fast?” Belle half-joked. “I mean, giving a known criminal the key to your place after the first date…”

Gold did not laugh. He stalked the room, hands clawing through his hair, without speaking.

It might have been a mistake to agree to come here with him. She _only just_ knew Rumford outside of the office, and _everyone_ knew that he had a temper. He’d nearly lost it when Officer Humbert fitted her ankle with the clunky, black monitor that would tether her to the building, but now that the police had gone he’d calmed again.

If he’d been upset on her behalf, she might have had something to say to him, something of a comfort to both of them. But as it was, Rum came across more agitated that Regina (he called her _Regina_ , which felt like a foreign concept; it was always Mayor Mills in the news) had dared to do this to him. To them. Most of the time he remembered that this had happened to _her_ too. They’d work on that.

The reminder of her father’s deteriorating root cellar still haunted her, but at least this was a bigger, more comfortable cage. Gilded, even. Belle wished she’d been free to tell him about her past in her own time, instead of having bad memories dredged up in this mess. Would he look at her differently? Most people did.

But that was a conversation for later, after she rested and thought about what she wanted to say. Prudent or not, she made her choice.

Belle could have insisted on being monitored from her walk-up in the Bronx, paid extra for grocery deliveries, and lived off her meager savings for a couple of months. She could have retreated to her room here – a sumptuous four-post bed trimmed in powder-blue brocade that looked like something out of a Victorian catalog, complete with fainting sofa. There were alternatives. Yet here she was, sipping tea at eight o’clock on a Saturday morning, in Gold’s sitting room, after staying up all night.

She had to admit: the room was lovely. Gold’s tastes in private were every bit as eclectic as his public spaces, with burnished hardwoods, jewel tones, and antiquities that would have been at home in the Dark Castle Collection intermarried with comfortable, over-stuffed leather furniture.

Across the room, he looked agitated. There was gentleness there too, though; a shy sort of calm lurking just beneath the surface, that came out when he could be bothered to stop performing for the world and relax with her (which he wasn’t at the moment.)

“Tea?” Belle offered, pouring a second cup. “It’s chamomile.”

“I hate that thing on you,” he growled, finally settling into the chair opposite hers and accepting the brew.

Belle glanced down at the black box protruding from her ankle. “It’s not so bad. I mean, it’s awful that this happened, but I’ll get used to it.”

Something in Gold snapped. “Regina will –“

“No,” Belle interrupted.

“Belle, she has to pay for this,” he scoffed. “What she’s done to you is intolerable, I can’t let this stand.”

“Rum, I’m exhausted. You’re exhausted. The Mayor, wherever she is, is probably asleep. I’d rather not have this conversation until I’ve rested, but I can see the wheels turning in your head. I don’t want any retaliation. You’re probably going to do what you want anyway, I know you that well at least, but please don’t act like it’s being done for my sake. All _I_ want right now is to finish my tea and go to bed.”

“That’s not true,” he deflated. “I care very much what you think, Belle, but I don’t see how you can sit there and act so damn calm about this!”

“I’ve been through worse,” she shrugged.

Gold blanched.

“And that is _really_ a conversation for after we’ve had some rest,” Belle continued. She gestured between them. “Whatever this is, you’re not alone in it. I feel a strong connection with you, but I’m not willing to be a prop in your feud with City Hall.”

“She’s the one who made you – I didn’t—“

“Regina Mills doesn’t have the power to _make me_ anything,” Belle huffed. “Nobody decides my fate but me. I don’t give a damn what she thinks I am, but I care very much about you. I won’t be a pawn. Or worse, an excuse. Do you understand?”

He was giving her that gooey-eyed, slack-jawed look again.

Belle blushed.

“I care very much about you too,” he softly confessed.

Belle beamed at him, her smile broken by a yawn.

“Thank God it’s the weekend,” she muttered, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

“Bed?” Rum offered, his grin quirking up to the left.

“Er… it’s a little soon for me,” she flushed.

“Of course, of course. I didn’t mean—“

“I’d like a hug, though?” Belle offered, rising to her feet and crossing over to him. She settled herself on the arm of his chair, the lush padding as comfortable as a proper seat. “A good, long one. Is that okay?”

Gold swallowed hard and nodded, and Belle eased herself into his lap. Their arms twined around one another, and she relaxed into his chest. She was seated side-saddle, with her legs tossed over the other arm rest, his arm and shoulder doubling as her backrest, so that her weight remained almost entirely off his bad leg.

“Thank you,” Belle whispered as the minutes passed. “For everything. Truly.”

“Anything you need, sweetheart, you’ve only to ask,” he soothed. “An assortment of clothes and toiletries are scheduled for delivery this afternoon, and anything else you want from the store or your apartment will be arranged. Just write it all down for Dove when you’re ready.”

“Oh, you didn’t have to…” Belle yawned, and gave up her protest. “I hadn’t thought about anything practical yet. That was foolish.”

“You were upset,” Rum replied. “But you’re safe now, and I’ll take care of everything.”

Belle tensed.

“What is it, sweetheart?” Gold asked.

“I hate that,” she said. “Being told that I’m safe. That it will all be taken care of for me.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

He was trying, at least. That was something. Belle shook her head. “Soon, but not yet. I need to rest first, and I should call Ariel to check-in… Oh, damn. My phone didn’t conveniently turn up on your doorstep, did it? I don’t have her number memorized.”

“Not yet, but I’m confident I’ll have it shortly.”

Belle pulled back.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said, running his hands comfortingly along her back. “I’ve just sent Jefferson to ask a few questions. Was there… er, was there anything of a sensitive nature? I hate to ask, but if I need to file injunctions on your behalf….”

“Oh, just the usual stuff,” Belle grinned. “Appointments. Angry Birds. A series of scintillating sexts and indecent selfies. Girl stuff.”

She could feel Gold’s cock stiffen against her thigh. His eyes went dark with arousal.

“Sorry,” she whispered, blushing crimson as she tried not to squirm in his lap. “I wasn’t being serious. There were a few texts on there between me and Dove that might be a little embarrassing. Mostly we talk about how you’re a prodigious grump in the mornings. And a few photos of my work, which is – on occasion –erotic, but personally I think the powdered wigs and frock coats ruin the mood. Oh!”

Gold hadn’t heard half of what she was saying; his hands were tracing patterns on her legs as he kissed her fervently. Belle pulled herself up and in, to fiddle with the hair at his nape as they kissed in a more comfortable position. As she moved, he made an inhuman sound and bucked his hips to prolong the friction. The sensuality of it sent her world spinning, with the first warmth of arousal spreading between her legs, but Belle was simply too worn out to be carried away by it.

Rum’s hands stopped abruptly as he ran the pads of his fingers down her calf, never daring a patch of skin higher than her hem but neglecting none below. He’d found his path to her toes obstructed by her ankle monitor.

“I am so sorry about this, sweetheart,” he breathed, pressing the sweetest kiss to her forehead. “It was a terrible mistake.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” she told him, but he’d gone quiet.   “Let’s get some rest. I don’t know about you, but I’m going on my 28th hour up.”

“Anything you want,” Rum murmured, misery writ large on his features.

“Will you… will you sleep here?” Belle asked him, putting herself to rights and standing up.

“Would it bother you if I stayed?”

“No,” she demurred. “I thought maybe we could have a late lunch when we wake up.”

A crooked smile broke out on his face, and after a series of goodnight kisses they both retreated to separate bedrooms.

But Gold did not go to sleep. Miles to go, as the poets say.

He had a shave and a wash, then slid into a fresh-pressed suit and left a note for Belle at the counter – on the odd chance that she woke up before he returned. Then he picked up his phone and ordered a car to meet him in front of his building.

Twenty minutes later he stood overlooking Hell Gate, while the two-story colonial (which, to his eye, had always resembled a yellow shoe box more than a grand manor) loomed ahead of him. He walked up without preamble, entered without knocking, and waved away the park security. They knew better.

Staffers and domestics circled around him in an uproar, but he was never turned away from Gracie Mansion. Ever. And so, with very little in the way of persuasion, he was admitted into the black-and-white checkered gallery. A hapless maid attempted to lead him left, toward the library, but Gold pushed past her toward the staircase. His cane clacked mercilessly against the marble.

“Mr. Gold, sir!” the little limpet called. “Sir, if you will only wait a moment, I will fetch Ms. Mills for you!”

But Gold was done waiting. He took the stairs two at a time, a feat for any man his age – never mind one with a bum leg – and the golden handle of his cane left dents in the hardwood as he banged on the door to the master bedroom.

“Oh Regina,” he taunted. “Wakey-wakey, your majesty!”

“What the hell Gold?” the woman snarled, already standing behind him. “I can’t say I didn’t expect you, but I didn’t think you’d literally beat the door down. Come into the sitting room like a civilized person.”

Rum spun on his heel to face her, cane still menacing and club-like in his fist.

“I think we’re well past civility, dearie,” he snarled at her.

“Even the notorious Beast of Broadway can be arrested for destruction of public property,” she smiled, lethal and polished as always. It was probably the one useful trait she’d inherited from her mother.

“You’ll be expensive to replace, Regina, but you are still expendable. You had no reason to go after Belle.”

“Is that her name?” she grinned. “I must admit, I haven’t even read the police report. But I think we both know that you’ve given me more than enough cause to make you suffer. You left my fundraiser early, do you have any idea what kind of message that sends to my other contributors?”

“I thought it was a charity ball,” Gold hissed. “Don’t tell me you’re embezzling now.”

Regina tossed her raven-black hair and huffed at him. “Of course not, but social and cultural capital are still valuable. I didn’t think I’d have to lecture you on that, of all people. I’d no idea you were so fond of the girl. I suppose this means I won’t be pressing charges after all?”

“Keep smiling, dearie. See what it gets you.”

“You twisted little imp, are you threatening me?”

“Why do people always ask that?” he breathed, fury making his chest heave. “I think my meaning was quite plain.”

Regina, to her credit, backed down. She stepped away and sauntered toward her desk, where she unlocked the top drawer.

“It wasn’t just about annoying you, you know,” she pouted. “ _Someone_ was taking photos in that bathroom, but I’ll admit I may have suffered a bit of tunnel-vision when I spotted your girl in there. The real culprit escaped. My people are being questioned about it, and Sydney’s keeping the press on lock-down. I’ve had him keep your little girlfriend’s name out of the headlines as well, but that could easily change.”

“So you knowingly accused the wrong person of a crime just to get even with me? And now you're threatening what's mine,” Gold spat in reply. “Dearie, I believe you’re losing your grip on reality. This went beyond stupid, it was sloppy.”

Regina fished a cell phone from the drawer and presented it to him. “Don’t be so melodramatic. I had no idea she was innocent until I had a chance to look through this, and by that time it was already too late. Claude assures me that the matter was handled to your satisfaction, so I really don’t see what further business you have here.”

“You will not mention my arrangements with Frollo again, are we clear?” Gold bristled.

He already felt more than ashamed by the weakness he’d shown in allowing Belle to be distressed, simply for his own peace of mind and convenience. She could never find out. He’d make it right, somehow, and then… ah, but the feel of Belle’s arms wrapped around him, seeking simple comfort after a long night. For that, he’d pay almost any price. The darkest corner of his mind whispered _worth it_ , and Gold despised himself for it.

Regina had the audacity to smirk at him. “She’s a very trusting little thing, isn’t she? That phone wasn’t even password protected.”

He knew what she was insinuating, but wasn’t going to take the bait. “If Jefferson finds a trace of malware on this-“

“He won’t. What would be the point? You’re not even on her contact list, and neither is anybody else of interest to me. No connections at all, at least not to anyone important. She’s just a boring, dry book worm. Are you sure she’s serious about this entanglement you’re pursuing? You’re ready to go to war with me over a woman you’ve had Dove courting.”

“An oversight,” Rum blushed. “And one that will soon be rectified.”

He wanted to snap at her again, to remind her who held the power in their relationship, but they were interrupted by one of her secretaries.

“Ms. Mills,” the nervous-looking man stammered. “I apologize for the intrusion, but Mr. Glass is holding on line one. He says it’s urgent and he needs to speak with you immediately.”

Gold could tell Regina was about to snap at the man, so he took his opportunity to strike.

“That will be about _The Times_ following up on allegations of tax evasion,” he whispered, so only Regina could hear. “You’ll be busy for the next few weeks, but you’ll be fine if you’re smart. I’m quite confident they’ll never find anything more than circumstantial, unless Mr. Madden’s hand slips over a mail box. Never cross me again, Regina. You won’t get off so easy.”

The Mayor was fuming, her dark eyes alight with rage.

He stepped back and spoke more loudly: “You will also apologize to Belle, and I will be keeping a close eye on Mr. Glass. As for your next fundraiser – we’ll see.”

Rumford showed himself out, leaving Regina to her devices.

“Where to next, sir?” his driver asked him.

He checked his watch. It was nearing ten o’clock. Gold slid Belle’s phone from his pocket. It would be so easy to see. She mentioned calling someone to check-in: had she told her friends about him? Was her crippled old boss, with more money than sense, no more than a funny joke to them?

Gold felt his prick stir with interest. What if she really had taken provocative photos of herself? What if they were for somebody else?

After the way he’d manipulated her situation tonight, it would serve him right. He couldn’t look. Could he?

“Once or twice around the Park please, dearie.”


	12. Chapter 12

Rumford was surprised to find Belle padding softly through his kitchen when he returned. It hadn’t yet gone noon.

“Hey,” he blinked, trying not to look absurdly pleased with himself. She was here. She always would be, at least for a few weeks while Spencer sorted the paperwork. If she never found out what he’d done, and if he spent the whole time making it up to her, then maybe – _maybe_ – she’d forgive him.

“Hey,” Belle replied, a little nervously. “I called downstairs, but your office line went to voice mail.”

“I uh, brought this up for you,” he stammered, reaching into his breast pocket for her phone. “I didn’t peek.”

Belle scoffed at him, and took the device. “I’d hope not! Should I be worried about that?”

“It wasn’t password protected,” he blushed. “Regina’s people combed through everything, but I didn’t. That seemed…” Wrong. Sacrilegious. Insult to injury. If another man stole photos of Belle at her most vulnerable, Gold would send him to the hospital. Besides, if there was anything on that phone that could hurt him, Regina would have used it against him. He could trust her malice more than most things.

“You should make sure nothing is missing, and then we should have someone in IT scan it for bugs,” Gold continued. “Or I’ll just buy you a new one, if you’d rather. I’m certain that’s not the newest model.”

Belle set down her phone on his granite countertop and stared at him, eyebrows quirked, eyes so precious they ought to have been set in platinum.

“Did you even sleep at all, Rum, or did you just run straight to the Mayor’s office?” she whispered.

Shit. Shit. Shit buggering fuck. He just had to drop Regina’s name. Force of habit, really, but lack of sleep was making him sloppy. “That’s not – I didn’t –“

“Please.” Her tone was neutral, but her eyes said everything. _Please don’t lie to me, you spectacular coward._

How had this all gone so wrong? He’d done the right thing – he hadn’t snooped through her phone!

“I thought you’d be happy to have it back,” he stalled.

“You thought I’d still be asleep,” she surmised, brokering no arguments. Her incriminating glare landed squarely on the black, plastic rectangle, damn the thing.

“I did leave a note,” Gold choked.

She glared at him.

“How did you know?” he gulped.

“Other than the way you started fidgeting as soon as you walked through the door?”

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” he lied. “I kept my word.” And he did. Jefferson did all the dirty work. Technically.

Her voice was so brittle it nearly shattered him. “I’ve got no choice but to trust you, Rum, and you pick now to toy with words? Not much frightens me, but that does.”

“Belle, I—I can do better. You’ll see.” He hoped that he sounded convincing.

She just sighed and sagged against the counter. “I know this isn’t fair to either of us. No – it’s really not. You didn’t sign up for all of this heavy talk about trust and honesty, and I certainly didn’t plan on going home with you tonight.”

She didn’t?

Belle seemed to hear the words left unsaid, and the barest hint of a smile graced her cheeks. “No, I didn’t. This is all happening very fast for me, but here we are, and now we need to talk about what happened. About expectations. About everything.” She gestured to her ankle monitor.

“You don’t ever have to worry about that, Belle,” he implored. “Whatever you want, whatever you need. I’ll leave. You’ll have the whole place to yourself, for as long as it takes, and I—“

“Let me finish, please?”

He should go. Give her some space and bow out gracefully. Instead, Gold nodded dumbly.

“These circumstances are difficult for me, but I can’t help thinking… That is, I can’t help but hope, that it will be okay. Because you’ve got that crooked grin, and you’re viciously clever, and I think you’re adorably sweet and layered underneath all that fuss. I’ve demanded a lot of you in the last 24 hours, I know that. More than you were able to give, obviously. Oh hush, it’s true. So I think I owe you an explanation. And you… well, you’ll listen. And then we’ll see. Okay?”

“Okay,” he said simply. Simple was better.

And so she told him. She told him about the summer after eleventh grade, when her mother died. How her petite, thin frame finally blossomed and her meager hips and breasts (blasphemy, they were perfection incarnate) took shape. She told him how her male friends started to look at her differently, and how her father made her quit dance class when her new leotard arrived. She told him how the only comfort she could find was in the library, and how her father grew more and more distant each day. More troubled. How he turned to drink.

She told him about the university acceptance letters, and the plans for prom, and the graduation parties that she’d only just given herself permission to enjoy. She told him about coming home buzzed, at two in the morning, and how her father grounded her for life.

She told him about sneaking out to visit the library, and returning to find her whole world altered. She told him about seven sweltering weeks spent trapped in the cellar, where nothing could hurt her, save neglect and nightmares. She told him about the love-struck boy, who finally filed a missing persons report. About how he thought saving her entitled him to something. About the ensuing fight, and all her friends taking sides, save two.

“So then I went away to college, and I never looked back,” Belle finished. “I learned later that Papa was in debt up to his eyeballs, and had been for a while. His creditors were threatening to hurt me. I wish I could say that helped me forgive him, but I’m still not ready. I hate being in small, dark spaces, even today. An elevator is just about the limit for me.”

“Belle…” Gold didn’t know how to comfort her, and he hated it.

“So that’s why,” she carried on bravely. “I know it’s not simple and clean, like you wanted. I’m just one massive tangle of anxiety at the moment, and now you’ve got to put up with me until this stupid anklet comes off. If we’re going to carry on – if you even want to try – then I need to know that you’re going to be truthful with me. I think, sometimes, that if I’d just managed to talk to my father instead of hiding behind my books, then maybe –“

“That was not your fault,” Gold snarled, pulling her close. “What happened was not your fault, Belle. You were seventeen and grieving.” Nobody deserved that. Not from a father. Not from anyone. He was a filthy hypocrite, and she smelled amazing.

Belle relaxed into him, her breath a soft puff against his shoulder.

“I’m not strong enough—“

“You’re strong,” Rumford whispered. “I could never do what you’ve done.” Lay it all bare like that, especially not to a bastard like him. “That anklet will be coming off soon, and then you’ll be back to your life. You have my word.”

“So that’s it, then?” she asked sadly. They were still standing in the kitchen, arms wrapped around each other, gently swaying to the distant echoes of the street. “I’ll go back to my life and you’ll go back to stewed tea?”

“I’m not a good man, Belle.” His voice sounded pinched, even to his own ears. “One hundred per cent honesty? You deserve as much – I’m not contesting that, but it’s… difficult for me. I’m not accustomed to sharing my business with anybody.”

“I’m not asking you about _business_. Or for perfection. I’m just asking you not to protect me from the truth, because you’ll just end up hurting me.”

Gold pressed a kiss to her cheek. “I’m willing to try. Will you… will you promise to be patient with me, even if I tell you I’m going to the Mayor’s house to give her hell against your advice?”

“Gave _Regina_ a bit of hell, did we?” Belle teased. Her chestnut curls tickled his neck.   “In between totally, innocently picking up my phone without snooping, and definitely-not-at-all escalating things?”

“I really didn’t snoop,” Rum blushed. Then, in the spirit of honesty (and possibly stupidity) he added, “But it was very tempting.”

“I’ll do us both a favor and set a passcode, then, shall I?”

“Will there _be_ an us?” he asked. He knew his grin probably looked barmy.

Belle nodded and kissed his cheek. “We’ve both got flaws and histories, but we’re trying. That sounds like _us_ to me.”

She awoke warm, verging on hot, spooned with Rum on his over-stuffed leather couch. Neither of them got any real rest before their heart-to-heart in the kitchen (despite Belle’s best intentions), and after a quick lunch of sandwiches and a sliced apple they’d both sat down with the intention to read. To relax a little.

That lasted about ten minutes before she was asleep on Gold’s shoulder and his head was lolling. At some point they’d readjusted, and Belle could just about make out the golden echoes of the western sun through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Had they really slept all day? At least it was winter: the days were shorter. The clock on the mantel said 4:30.

She tried to slide gracefully away, to sneak off to the toilet, but her bare legs stuck to the leather and made a sticky, peeling noise that woke Gold behind her.

“Dinnae go,” he mumbled. “S’early.”

“It’s late, actually,” she whispered back, wriggling out of his arms. “And I have to use the… the facilities.”

“So lady-like,” Rumford teased, peeling his face from the leather. The red mark left on his cheek looked like a port-wine stain.

Belle chuckled and finger-combed his hair back into place. “I have to pee, and then I need to make a few calls and think about what I’m going to need from my apartment.”

Rum feigned indignant shock. “Leaving me to my own devices, dearie? The City quakes.”

With a rueful smile, Belle turned and went about her business. She had a missed call from Ariel, a few texts from her friends, but all-in-all the literary world had not ceased to function in her absence. It felt surreal to think it: but at this time yesterday, she was just getting ready for _Sleeping Beauty_. And now she lived with her date. Temporarily.

She decided to text Ariel that she was okay, sparing them both a conversation that would go much better face-to-face, and promised to give her all the details on Monday. Then she headed out onto the balcony ( _the_ balcony was a bit of an understatement; it was _a_ balcony - one of many, including a large patio and green space) to call Anna, her oldest friend still living in Maine.

“Belle – how was your date?” the bubbly brunette answered without preamble. “Did he make a move? Was he any good? Oh God, are you still with him? _Am I on speakerphone_?”

“No, no,” Belle laughed. “But I am still with him. Sort of. It’s been kind of a crazy day…” She told Anna everything that had happened, and only went wobble-lipped twice.

It would get easier with time. Belle wasn’t ashamed to cry - never that – but she knew that there would be questions when she returned to work, and that she’d have to try to remain stoic as she answered them. Maybe she should ask Dove for some loose slacks, so it wasn’t totally obvious (as it would be wearing a skirt). Besides, she wasn’t sure how she’d manage stockings or tights around the bulky apparatus, so pant-suits might be in order. Belle wrinkled her nose as Anna carried on. She looked terrible in trousers, and even the petite-cuts ended up needing a higher hem.

“Do you need me to come down?” Anna offered, and Belle knew that she would. “I mean, after everything with your father… Oh, sorry.”

They didn’t mention her father, if it could be helped, but Belle didn’t mind. Anna knew the whole story – all of Storybrooke did – and it was sweet of her to worry.

In all the world, Anna was the only one who Belle knew – without question or doubt – would drop what she was doing and help a friend in need. She and her sister, Elsie, were the only people in Storybrooke Belle still kept in touch with.

“I think I’ll be okay,” Belle decided. “Rum is very confident that it will blow over soon, and I can’t decide if that’s alarming or cute. I am so out of my depth here… But I’m not unhappy. I’m staying in the same building as my museum, actually, so I won’t lose my job. Thank you, though. Truly, thank you.”

“Don’t thank me Belle – you’re like a sister to us, you know that. So… other than being locked up in a tower by an evil witch, how was the ballet?” And that was just Anna: she could change topics in the space of a heartbeat.

“Oh, Anna, the dancers! You wouldn’t believe the seats we had – I could count the tendons in their legs. And the music – you have to come down, and we’ll splurge on Orchestra seating. It will be worth it. You can even meet my friend Ariel, I’m sure you’ll like her.”

“It’s a date!” Anna enthused. “An all-girls sleepover with lots of dancing and chocolate!”

“I’ll send you a list of free weekends as soon as I break out of the tower,” Belle grinned. It felt so _good_ to just do something normal for a moment.

“I’m not sure that metaphor works, now that I think about it, but I’m digging the imagery! Talk to you later, Belles. Call me if you need anything!”

They hung up, and Belle started working on her list. Pantsuits would be good, even if she did end up looking like a little girl playing dress-up.

Simple things, like toothbrushes and razors, had already been delivered, along with an assortment of her own clothes. Had she left any dirty dishes in her sink? And where had Dove found her apartment key? Thank goodness she was a relatively neat person. Belle dreaded what she’d find when she finally did return home, but Rum was trying to help. If she had to be arrested and tracked by the City, this was the most sensible arrangement by far.

“Belle?” a soft voice behind her queried.

She turned around and found Gold fully pressed and presentable again.

“Do you need anything else before I head home for the night?” he asked her, leaning a bit more heavily on his cane.

“You’re leaving?” She hadn’t expected to be alone so soon.

“I… We discussed _expectations_ , didn’t we? I don’t want to be in your hair – this is to be your home, for the time being. I’ll only come back in if you invite me.”

She nibbled on her bottom lip, lost deep in thought. Of the endless possibilities, practicality won out.

“I don’t want to drive you out, but I think we should be careful about playing house. I have no objections to your being here as often as you want, but I think we need boundaries. Does that make sense?” She sounded half-mad, even to her own ears. A propensity for analysis and internalization of stress often led Belle to over-complicate simple matters; unfortunately, she didn’t always realize she was doing it until it was too late.

Gold just nodded solemnly. “I’ll stay at the town house tonight, and come over on Sunday to make sure you’re settling in. I usually come into the office on Sundays anyway, but I’d like… I need…” He cut himself off and shook his head, shaggy hair falling into his eyes.

“Would you mind walking me down to the museum before you go?” she asked. He looked miserably awkward standing there; too shy to ask for a good-bye kiss which she dearly wanted to give him. It would be easier on neutral ground, and besides, she was nervous about testing the limits of her cage alone. “I’d like to get something to work on.”

He offered his arm. “Of course.”

Even on the weekend, Gold’s offices were not entirely devoid of activity, and Belle found herself glad of the express elevator that ensured minimum visibility. When they got there, the doors were already locked for the night, and Belle admitted defeat.

“I forgot it wasn’t a public access day,” she sighed. “Oh well, I guess I can wait until Monday.”

“Nonsense,” Gold smirked. “Allow me.”

He navigated the security system so quickly that Belle could scarcely believe her eyes, and before she knew it they were standing in the opening gallery.

“You know, technically nobody is allowed in the Dark Castle after closing,” she teased. “We’re a regular pair of law-breaking fiends.”

Gold chuckled, and mad a little bow. “My museum, my rules! Lead the way, my lady.”

Belle rolled her eyes and led him back, toward the annex. “You take a lot of pride in being a Trustee for this place, don’t you? Don’t be bashful, I think it’s sweet. It’s nice to see a donor who actually cares about the arts instead of just supporting them for visibility. Even if you do fudge it a bit at the ballet.”

“Er…” He looked nervous, so Belle made things easy and turned on the light.

“We’re here!” she chirped, and set about collecting a few scans of her French Book, along with the massive catalog she kept for the main library. The gall ink and vellum would have to stay – she’d never forgive herself if she stained one of Gold’s undoubtedly priceless carpets. Besides, she still had a few new additions to add, and notes on her restorations to make; just this much would keep her busy through the evening, which was exactly what she needed.

“This is where you work?” he asked incredulously.

Belle looked up from her pile of documents and took stock of the room. It was, perhaps, a bit shabby. But what did he expect? The wonderful things housed in the Dark Castle Collection accumulated an enormous amount of dust, and there were always repairs and restorations to make. Her annex was a smallish (by Gold’s standards; actually, it was roughly twice the size of her apartment), windowless room stuffed full of old pottery, work tables, computers, and crates. A shelf of preservative and gentle cleaning chemicals gave the barest odor, but other than that it wasn’t musty in the least.

“This is where everybody works,” she answered simply. “At least when they’re restoring a piece. The offices are down the other hall we passed, which I’m sure you know since you’ve visited Dr. Anton there. But yes, I have a permanent station back here. I’m in the annex about six hours a day, but the rest I get to spend in the _library_.” She would defy anybody to say the word library without smiling, and refused to believe it was a simple coincidence of phonemes.

Gold said nothing.

“Do you want to see it?” Belle hadn’t had an opportunity to show it off to anybody besides Anton and Rob, but the first few shelves were coming together nicely. And since part of museum work was always presentation (even for collections unlikely to be opened to the public) she’d even had a hand in selecting the furnishings. After all, they wanted it to look full – with a bit of room to grow, perhaps – and to retain the authenticity of the medieval flare. You wouldn’t find its like outside of Dublin or Oxford. Even the New York Public Library didn’t have anything as grand.

“Technically it’s not open to the public for another year or so, and there are still some dust sheets up where the temperature-controlled vault will go, but I’ve got a few shelves set up as aesthetic models.” Belle took Rum’s hand and led him through the Great Hall, then out an adjoining door with a simple _Closed_ sign on it. “Isn’t it marvelous?”

On the western wall, a facade of pointed, gothic arches set with pebbled glass camouflaged the smooth modernism of the outer building, making the silhouette of the City (glowing neon starlight) twist and turn like a Van Gough painting. High, vaulted ceilings glittered in the light of a hundred LED candles, and spiral staircases wound in wrought-iron along rows of hardwood shelves two stories tall. Only the builder’s tools and electrical kit accumulated outside one of the alcoves gave the modernity away.

She twirled, grinning, to gage Gold’s reaction, but he wasn’t looking at the room.

“Yes,” he agreed. “Beautiful.”


End file.
